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The  Little  Old  Lady 


BY 

LYNN  HAROLD  HOUGH 


Copyright,  1917.  by 
LYNN   HAROLD  HOUGH 


TO  MY  FRIEND 
DAN  B.  BRUMMITT 

WITHOUT  WHOSE   ENCOURAGEMENT  THESE 
STORIES   WOULD   NEVER   HAVE   BEEN   WRITTEN 


2130447 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.    A  BUNDLE  OF  BOOKS 9 

II.    BY  THE  LIBRARY  FIRE 18 

III.  THE  UNDESERVING  POOR 28 

IV.  THE  SEVEN  STARS 39 

V.    IN  THE  MIDDLE  OF  THE  NIGHT 50 

VI.  THE  ECLIPSE  OF  ELIZABETH  DALRYMPLE    60 

VII.  SHE  DID  NOT  UNDERSTAND 74 

VIII.  BLEED  AWHILE;  THEN  FIGHT  AGAIN..     84 

IX.  WHEN  SKIES  WERE  GRAY 93 

X.  BURNING  BUT  NOT  CONSUMED 100 

XI.  AT  THE  POLO  GROUNDS 112 

XII.  THE  OTHER  COUNTRY  . .  ,124 


I 

A  BUNDLE  OF  BOOKS 

THE  little  old  lady  sat  rather  primly  in  her 
easy  chair.  Her  face  with  its  sharp,  fine 
lines,  her  beautiful  white  hair,  her  eyes  which 
could  yet  flash  with  a  vital  luster,  and  the 
quiet  charm  of  her  gown,  made  her  an  arresting 
figure.  She  clearly  had  come  out  of  another 
age  into  this.  But  she  did  not  simply  suggest 
lavender  and  old  lace.  She  seemed  very  much 
at  home  in  the  world  of  to-day.  There  was  a 
shrewd  alertness  about  her  which  suggested  that 
not  much  of  significance  escaped  her  scrutiny. 
And  withal  there  was  a  sympathetic  kindliness 
in  her  expression  which  made  you  feel  at  once 
that  she  was  the  sort  of  person  to  be  a  human 
shelter  in  a  time  of  storm. 

I  flung  myself  in  the  chair  beside  her,  while 
she  looked  up  inquiringly.  "No,  don't  ask  me 
a  single  question,"  I  began.  "You  are  always 
picking  up  the  reins  and  setting  me  going  on  a 
conversational  trot  when  I  come  to  hear  you 
talk.  To-day  I'm  going  to  have  my  way.  I 

9 


10  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

will  be  all  ears  and  you  are  to  be" — here  I 
broke  off  a  little  disconcerted  by  the  direction 
in  which  my  figure  was  carrying  me. 

"All  tongue,"  she  laughingly  completed  my 
sentence,  with  a  sort  of  gay  contagion  in  her 
merriment.  "And  what  shall  I  talk  about?" 

"Talk  about  books,"  I  replied.  "Tell  me 
about  your  twelve-foot  shelf.  Here  you  are 
reading  and  thinking  and  brooding  over  great 
books  for  years  and  then  hiding  your  light 
under  a  bushel.  Now  let  it  shine  on  me." 

The  little  old  lady  sat  very  still  for  a  mo- 
ment. She  was  always  making  all  of  us  tell 
her  of  our  interests,  of  our  successes  and  our 
failures,  of  our  likes  and  dislikes.  She  seemed 
to  enjoy  being  a  background  for  her  friends' 
experiences.  It  was  a  little  hard  for  her  to 
turn  her  mind  inward  and  talk  about  her  own 
likes  and  dislikes  even  in  the  world  of  books. 
But  her  eyes  brightened  in  a  moment  and  she 
began. 

"I  haven't  any  twelve-foot  shelf  at  all.  And 
I  haven't  any  books.  I  just  have  friends  who 
speak  through  the  printed  page.  It's  the  friends 
I  care  about,  and  when  I'm  alone  I  don't  just 
feel  that  I'm  sitting  among  books,  but  that  I'm 
sitting  among  people.  I've  never  been  a  col- 


A  BUNDLE  OF  BOOKS  11 

lector  of  books  and  I  don't  believe  I  can  call 
myself  a  collector  of  ideas.  I  go  to  books  to 
get  acquainted  with  people.  And  a  bundle  of 
books  is  really  a  company  of  friends." 

Here  I  broke  in  for  a  moment,  despite  the 
assertion  I  had  made  that  she  was  to  do  the 
talking.  "What  an  expert  in  humanity  you 
are!  You  simply  keep  people  hovering  about 
you,  and  you  even  make  your  library  human." 

But  the  alert  look  was  in  her  eye  again. 
"No,  I  don't  make  my  library  human.  I 
simply  refuse  to  admit  any  books  which  are 
not  alive.  I  keep  a  sign  over  the  door,  'This 
is  not  a  mausoleum.  No  literary  corpse  ad- 
mitted here.'  ' 

She  looked  up  at  the  well-filled  shelves  all 
about  her  and  began  to  nod  her  head  in  a  way 
which  suggested  judicial  estimate  and  a  final 
verdict.  "Yes,"  she  said,  while  her  eyes  rested 
lovingly  on  volume  after  volume,  "you  are  all 
alive — every  one  of  you." 

I  had  absent-mindedly  picked  up  a  volume 
from  the  table.  It  was  J.  A.  Spender's  The 
Comments  of  Bagshot.  The  little  old  lady  put 
out  her  hand  for  it. 

"If  I  were  making  a  bundle  of  books  to 
carry  off  to  a  desert  island — or  a  pig-skin  li- 


12  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

brary  to  take  to  Africa,"  she  said,  "I  think 
Bagshot  would  have  to  go  along.  You  see,  he 
is  the  sort  of  person  who  fairly  tantalizes  you 
into  thinking.  He  has  an  individual  mind,  and 
he  knows  how  to  say  things  so  that  you  sit  right 
up  to  listen.  Take  this  for  example,'*  and  she 
read :  'The  true  bore  is  seldom  stupid,  and  often 
very  clever;  but  a  diet  of  pearls  is  extremely 
boring  to  the  swine.'  ' 

She  waited  a  moment  to  be  sure  that  I  had 
taken  in  Bagshot's  clever  saying.  Then  she 
went  on:  "Do  you  know,  there  came  to  me 
like  a  flash  when  I  read  that,  the  memory  of 
conversations  where  I  had  been  dreadfully 
bored,  but  every  sentence  of  which  would  have 
proved  full  of  stimulus  and  enjoyment  for  peo- 
ple of  another  temperament  and  of  other  in- 
terests. You  can  choose  a  book  which  fits  your 
mood  and  you  can  choose  a  book  which  fits 
your  interest.  With  people  you  have  exactly 
the  opposite  situation.  You  must  learn  to  fit 
their  mood  and  respond  to  their  interests." 

"And  how  did  you  learn  to  do  that?"  I  in- 
terrupted. "For  you  are  always  in  my  mood 
when  I  come  to  see  you,  and  the  thing  that 
interests  me  seems  about  the  most  interesting 
thing  in  the  world  to  you." 


A  BUNDLE  OF  BOOKS  IB 

"I'm  afraid  you  are  a  sly  flatterer,"  said  the 
little  old  lady,  "but  if  there's  any  truth  in  what 
you  say,  there  are  two  causes  for  it.  One  is 
that  I  have  a  great  Friend  in  whose  presence  no 
human  being  ever  felt  lonely,  and  he  has  taught 
me  many  things.  The  other  is  that  my  book 
friends  have  taught  me  that  nothing  which 
causes  a  human  heart  to  beat  faster  or  an  eye 
to  kindle  is  uninteresting  if  you  really  under- 
stand it." 

She  picked  up  a  well-worn  copy  of  Brown- 
ing's poems  as  she  said:  "Browning,  you  know, 
was  always  showing  us  that  every  man  is  a 
fascinating  study  if  you  only  have  the  key  to 
the  right  room  in  his  soul.  I  am  not  sure  but 
it  was  he  who  made  me  see  that  life  is  a  great 
game  where  all  the  people  are  locks  and  I  am 
to  find  the  right  keys.  It's  a  game  you  never 
tire  of.  There's  always  a  thrill  of  delight  when 
you  find  the  key  which  fits  the  lock." 

The  little  old  lady  reached  toward  some 
books  which  had  evidently  recently  come  to 
her.  One  was  Edward  Steiner's  From  Alien  to 
Citizen.  She  opened  it  and  pointed  to  one  of 
the  pictures  of  Mr.  Steiner  which  it  contains. 

"Here  is  a  man  who  deserves  the  blessing 
Abou  Ben  Adhem  received,"  she  declared; 


14  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

"such  zestful,  hearty,  comradely  love  for  his 
fellow  men  as  this  book  does  breathe  forth! 
It's  a  regular  course  in  humanity." 

She  paused  and  her  face  was  grave  with  a 
certain  regretful  thought  for  a  moment.  "There 
was  a  time,"  she  said,  quietly,  "when  the  very 
name  'immigrant'  brought  up  unpleasant  sug- 
gestions in  my  mind.  I  thought  of  him  as  just 
a  suit  of  clothes — and  not  a  very  respectable 
suit  of  clothes — with  a  foreigner  inside.  Then 
came  Jacob  Riis  with  The  Making  of  an  Amer- 
ican, and  Mary  Antin  with  The  Promised  Land, 
and  I  was  converted.  Now  comes  Edward 
Steiner  with  From  Alien  to  Citizen,  and  I  be- 
lieve"— this  with  a  deliciously  quizzical  look  in 
her  eyes — "that  I  am  going  on  unto  perfection 
in  my  feelings  about  the  immigrant.  Of  course 
the  human  touch  is  the  final  matter.  The  boy 
of  Slavic  antecedents  who  left  the  house  just 
as  you  came  in  has  taught  me  more  than  all 
the  books.  You  ought  to  see  his  eyes  flash  as 
he  pronounces  the  word  'America/  It's  like 
watching  Aphrodite  born  from  the  sea  foam. 
The  Goddess  of  Liberty  seems  to  leap  from  his 
eyes  as  he  speaks.  You  know  that  the  future  is 
safe  if  you  can  keep  that  flash  in  American  eyes." 

By  this  time  I  was  leaning  back  in  my  chair 


A  BUNDLE  OF  BOOKS  15 

listening  in  quiet  delight.  The  little  old  lady 
was  in  one  of  her  really  revealing  moods,  and 
I  knew  that  there  was  more  to  come.  A  vol- 
ume of  poems  by  Alfred  Noyes  was  near  her 
on  the  table  and  it  caught  her  eyes  as  she  went 
on:  "My  boy  from  the  east  of  Europe  has 
taught  me  many  things.  Brush  away  surface 
differences  and  the  deep  common  human  things 
come  marching  out  of  his  life.  You  understand 
them  and  you  feel  them,  and  so  you  understand 
him.  This  afternoon  I  read  to  him  Alfred 
Noyes'  'Barrel  Organ.*  I  had  explained  some 
things  before  I  read  the  poem  and  he  caught 
every  bit  of  it.  He  fairly  kept  time  to  its 
music  and  his  mind  kept  time  to  its  thought. 
Noyes  helps  me  to  feel  that  life  may  still  be  set 
to  a  musical  accompaniment  and  that  the  music 
need  not  be  a  somber  minor.  I  like  the  robust 
poetry,  providing  there  is  moral  and  spiritual 
robustness  as  well  as  vigor  of  phrase.  I  have 
kept  saying  over  and  over  again  to  myself  some 
lines  of  one  of  the  new  and  really  inspired  poets : 

"The  soul  can  split  the  sky  in  two,  and  let  the  face  of  God 

shine  through, 
But  East  and  West  will  pierce  the  heart,  that  cannot  keep 

them  pressed  apart. 
And  he  whose  soul  is  flat — the  sky 
Will  cave  in  on  him  by  and  by." 


16  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

"Now,  don't  you  wish  you  had  written  that?" 
she  inquired,  triumphantly,  after  quoting  the 
words  with  infinite  zest. 

"Yes,  because  if  I  had  written  that  I  could 
get  some  other  things  said  which  I  do  not 
know  how  to  express,"  I  replied. 

There  was  a  flash  of  quick  approval  in  her 
eye,  but  she  went  on:  "I  was  speaking  of  Alfred 
Noyes  when  those  lines  came  dashing  into  my 
mind  and  they  had  to  come  out.  If  you  will 
really  master  'The  Flower  of  Old  Japan'  and 
'The  Forest  of  Wild  Thyme,'  you'll  know  some 
things  almost  too  deep  for  words.  It  is  a  wise 
man  who  can  bring  bright  solid  pearls  from 
fairyland." 

On  a  shelf  near  to  the  chair  in  which  the  little 
old  lady  sat  I  noticed  The  Gentle  Reader, 
Among  Friends,  and  Humanly  Speaking,  by  that 
quiet,  observant  essayist,  Samuel  Crothers.  She 
followed  my  eyes,  and  her  own  brightened  as 
they  fell  upon  the  books. 

"Really,  I  hardly  know  how  to  tell  you  the 
way  I  feel  about  Samuel  Crothers.  Since  the 
time  when  I  first  read  one  of  his  essays  in  the 
Atlantic  I  have  felt  that  I  had  another  friend, 
a  man  of  that  whimsical,  quiet  gayety  which 
adds  so  much  to  the  zest  of  life.  But  since  the 


A  BUNDLE  OF  BOOKS  17 

publication  of  Humanly  Speaking  I  think  of 
Crothers  as  a  man  of  genuine  leadership.  He 
says  some  words  which  it  is  most  important  to 
have  Americans  hear  and  heed.  And  I  myself 
can  never  forget  or  long  ignore  his  new  com- 
mandment, 'Thou  shalt  not  sulk.'  ' 

Suddenly  remembering  an  engagement,  I 
pulled  out  my  watch,  and  gave  a  little  whistle 
of  surprise — I  was  very  much  at  home  with  the 
little  old  lady  and  I  had  learned  long  ago  how 
she  liked  these  unconventional  expressions  of  a 
man's  feeling.  There  was  only  time  to  reach 
my  appointment.  So  I  reached  for  my  hat. 
It  was  quite  like  the  little  old  lady  to  add  as 
her  last  word  in  the  midst  of  her  farewells: 

"I  found  the  most  remarkably  human  bit 
which  I  had  never  noticed  before  when  I  was 
reading  Jeremiah  the  other  day.  I  do  like 
human  prophets." 

So  I  went  away  with  the  phrase  "human 
prophet"  ringing  in  my  ear.  It  seemed  both 
a  challenge  and  a  command.  Dear  little  old 
lady!  Does  she  ever  dream  how  much  she  has 
influenced  us  all? 


II 

BY  THE  LIBRARY  FIRE 

fTlHERE  was  a  quiet  enticing  little  alcove 
X      in   one   corner   of   the   library.     Here   I 
threw  myself  down  in  an  easy  chair. 

The  Christmas  season  was  approaching  and 
there  had  been  an  unusual  pressure  of  work. 
In  another  part  of  the  room  a  wood  fire 
crackled,  but  I  kept  to  my  favorite  alcove 
in  spite  of  its  invitation.  A  book  was  lying 
open  on  a  little  table  near  me.  I  picked  it 
up  and  read  the  title,  The  Romance  of  Preach- 
ing, by  Charles  Silvester  Home.  My  eyes 
fell  on  a  marked  sentence,  and  I  read,  "I 
might  have  called  the  subject  of  these  lectures, 
in  which  I  hope  to  review  some  of  the  more 
notable  preaching  exploits  of  history,  'Keep- 
ing the  Soul  of  the  World  Alive.'  I  have 
preferred  to  call  it  The  Romance  of  Preaching." 
This  phrase,  "Keeping  the  soul  alive,"  had 
arrested  the  attention  of  the  little  old  lady 
and  she  had  marked  it  in  her  careful,  indi- 
vidual way.  I  sat  dreaming,  with  the  book 

18 


BY  THE  LIBRARY  FIRE  19 

before  me,  seeing  again  the  form  of  that  knight 
of  non-conformity,  Silvester  Home,  hearing 
his  summoning  voice,  and  calling  to  mind 
that  London  Mission  where  his  name  is  such 
a  sacred  memory. 

But  my  meditations  were  suddenly  inter- 
rupted. There  was  the  sharp,  decisive  move- 
ment of  young  feet,  and  the  voices  of  Tom 
and  Charley  and  Mary  seemed  mingled  in 
enthusiastic  talk  as  with  the  little  old  lady 
they  entered  the  library.  It  was  good  to 
see  them  so,  youth  and  age  in  the  heartiest 
and  most  understanding  comradeship.  Tom 
placed  a  comfortable  chair  in  front  of  the 
library  fire  and  soon  the  three  children  were 
gathered  about  their  grandmother,  still  talking 
eagerly.  It  was  a  very  pleasant  picture,  and 
from  my  alcove  I  looked  upon  it  with  quiet 
enjoyment. 

In  a  momentary  lull  in  the  talk  Mary  looked 
up  quickly.  "Now,  grandmother,  it's  time  for 
the  stories,"  she  said. 

"Yes!  Yes!"  chimed  in  the  others.  "You 
know  you  promised  us  two  Christmas  stories, 
which  really  belonged  together  and  made 
one  story,  and  we  were  to  think  about  them 
and  find  out  just  what  they  meant." 


20  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

The  three  were  hovering  over  her  eagerly 
now,  and  a  tiny  delicate  flush  mounted  the 
cheek  of  the  little  old  lady  as  she  looked  upon 
their  buoyant,  healthful,  bright  faces. 

"Well,  if  I  promised,  the  stories  must  be 
told,"  she  replied,  and  Tom  and  Charley 
and  Mary,  with  half-articulate  sounds  of  de- 
light, placed  themselves  in  favorite  positions 
where  they  could  watch  every  expression  on 
the  face  of  their  grandmother,  and  could  even 
see  the  flash  in  her  eyes.  Tom  used  to  say, 
"You  don't  really  hear  one  of  grandmother's 
stories  unless  you  watch  her  eyes." 

"I'll  tell  you  first,"  the  little  old  lady  began, 
"about  the  Christmas  songs  which  got  lost." 
She  put  her  hand  on  Charley's  curly  head 
and  looked  into  his  dreamy,  thoughtful  eyes 
as  she  went  on. 

"Every  Christmas  the  good  God  sends  a 
great  number  of  Christmas  songs  to  the  world. 
They  are  the  strangest  little  creatures  you 
can  imagine.  They  have  no  bodies,  or  arms, 
or  legs.  They  just  have  heads,  bright,  merry 
faces  with  shining  eyes,  and  wings — 

Tom  had  been  visiting  an  art  gallery  with 
his  teacher,  and  here  he  broke  in:  "They're 
just  the  opposite  of  the  Winged  Victory. 


BY  THE  LIBRARY  FIRE  21 

It  has  wings  without  a  head,  and  they  have 
heads  and  wings  and  nothing  else." 

The  little  old  lady  smiled  with  appreciation 
at  this  interruption.  She  was  pleased  with 
every  indication  that  the  children  were  remem- 
bering what  they  had  seen,  and  thinking  and 
comparing. 

"That's  quite  right,  Tom,"  she  said.  "But 
their  wings  are  very  much  like  those  of  the 
Winged  Victory.  Only  they  are  all  very 
small.  Such  little  wings,  and  such  very  tiny 
heads." 

"And  what  do  they  do?"  asked  Mary, 
with  an  alert  little  look  of  which  we  were 
all  very  fond.  She  wanted  the  story  to  go  on. 

"What  do  the  Christmas  songs  do?"  re- 
peated the  little  old  lady.  "Why,  they  come 
straight  to  the  world.  The  good  God  sends 
as  many  songs  as  there  are  people  in  the  world. 
And  if  the  people  will  let  them  in,  they  go 
right  into  their  hearts  and  sing  there.  The 
most  wonderful  music  in  the  world  is  made 
by  the  Christmas  songs  when  they  sing  in 
people's  hearts.  That's  what  makes  Christmas 
such  a  glad  time  to  so  many  people.  When 
you  go  out  on  the  street  on  Christmas  day 
and  look  into  the  people's  faces  you  can  tell 


22  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

whether  the  Christmas  song  has  been  sung 
for  them.  Wherever  you  see  a  bright,  shining 
face  you  can  know  that  a  Christmas  song  was 
welcomed  in  another  heart." 

The  children  were  quite  accustomed  to  the 
little  old  lady's  fanciful  stories,  and  their 
minds  followed  them  readily.  They  were  very 
quiet  for  a  moment  thinking,  and  then  she 
went  on: 

"Once  there  was  a  little  village  of  a  thou- 
sand people.  And  every  one  of  them  was 
just  as  selfish  as  selfish  could  be.  When 
Christmas  time  came  the  good  God  sent  a 
thousand  songs  to  the  village,  with  their 
merry  faces  and  shining  eyes  and  bright  wings. 
And  not  a  person  in  the  village  would  make 
a  place  in  his  heart  for  one  of  the  Christmas 
songs.  All  the  people  were  busy  with  selfish 
thoughts,  and  some  were  bent  on  cruel  deeds, 
and  so  they  could  give  no  welcome  to  the 
little  creatures  who  had  come  to  sing  to  them. 
And  the  Christmas  songs  flew  about  the  vil- 
lage, O,  so  unhappy  and  full  of  sorrow— 
because  no  one  would  give  them  a  welcome. 
Then,  small  as  they  were,  they  began  to  shrink 
and  grow  smaller  and  smaller,  until  at  last 
you  could  hardly  see  them  at  all.  And  then 


BY  THE  LIBRARY  FIRE  23 

a  cold,  swift  wind  came  along  and  blew  them 
away — no  one  ever  knew  where.  And  the 
thousand  selfish  people  in  the  village  went 
on  their  hard,  selfish  way.  But  they  had  no 
Christmas  music  in  their  hearts.  They  were 
not  happy,  and  as  time  went  on  their  faces 
grew  black  and  sullen.  And  people  used  to 
go  out  of  their  way  to  avoid  that  village  where 
there  was  no  place  in  any  heart  for  a  Christ- 
mas song." 

The  wood  sputtered  and  blazed  in  the  fire- 
place, and  the  children  looked  into  it  with 
sober  eyes.  It  was  Tom  who  spoke  first, 
looking  up  at  his  grandmother. 

"I  suppose  you  wouldn't  have  a  real  Christ- 
mas, however  many  presents  you  got,"  he 
said,  "if  you  kept  Christmas  shut  out  of  your 
heart." 

"That's  just  it,"  cried  the  little  old  lady, 
"and  it  surely  didn't  take  you  long  to  find 
out  what  the  story  meant,"  she  added,  patting 
him  on  the  shoulder  with  her  delicate  hand 
in  whose  very  touch  we  had  all  found  no  end 
of  meaning. 

There  was  a  moment  more  of  quiet,  and 
then  Mary,  who  never  did  like  to  wait,  rose 
from  her  chair,  took  a  turn  in  the  room,  and 


24  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

then  flinging  herself  on  a  rug  near  her  grand- 
mother, looked  up  expectantly.  A  twinkle 
came  into  the  eyes  of  the  little  old  lady. 

"Now  you  want  the  other  story,  don't 
you?"  said  she. 

Six  eager  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her,  and 
three  voices  called  impatiently  for  the  second 
story.  I  sometimes  wondered  that  the  gentle, 
fragile  woman  was  not  worn  out  by  these 
boisterous,  eager  children.  They  were  so 
constantly  with  her.  And  whether  it  was  a 
story  or  a  new  game  she  invented  for  them, 
they  were  back  again  clamoring  for  more. 
She  did  not  seem  at  all  weary,  however,  as 
with  a  little  movement  of  preparation  as  if 
settling  herself  for  an  interesting  time  she 
began. 

"There  was  a  little  boy  who  had  to  go  to 
bed  every  night  at  seven  o'clock — " 

"That  must  have  been  Charley,"  laughed 
Tom. 

"Well,  you  needn't  talk,"  said  Charley, 
"you  used  to  have  to  go  to  bed  at  seven  o'clock 
too." 

But  the  little  old  lady  was  not  to  be  di- 
verted from  her  story. 

"This  little  boy  used  to  have  the  queerest 


BY  THE  LIBRARY  FIRE  25 

and  most  wonderful  dreams.  He  would  tell 
them  to  his  mother,  and  sometimes  she  would 
laugh  at  them,  and  sometimes  a  bright  little 
tear  would  glisten  in  her  eyes.  She  often 
wondered  how  he  came  to  have  these  dreams, 
and  what  thoughts  in  his  brain  kept  playing 
about  in  his  mind  after  he  had  gone  to  sleep, 
to  make  them.  Well,  the  evening  of  Christ- 
mas this  little  boy  asked  to  be  allowed  to 
stay  out  of  bed  just  as  long  as  he  wanted  to, 
and  he  was  told  that  he  might  do  it  for  just 
that  one  night.  His  father  put  him  in  a  big 
Morris  chair  with  all  his  toys  and  presents 
about  him,  and  he  sat  looking  at  the  Christ- 
mas tree,  all  shining  with  the  lights  of  a  hun- 
dred little  candles.  It  was  great  fun,  and  for 
a  long  time  he  never  thought  of  sleep.  At  last 
he  noticed  one  candle  on  the  tree  go  out,  and 
then  another,  and  another,  and  then  his  eye- 
lids began  to  droop  and— 

"He  went  sound  asleep,"  interrupted  Tom, 
giving  Charley  a  little  push  with  his  thumb. 
"Just  what  you'd  do,  old  boy,  if  you  tried 
to  stay  up  long  after  seven  o'clock." 

Charley  was  too  much  interested  in  the 
story  to  resent  this  side  attack,  and  the  little 
old  lady  went  on. 


26  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

"Well,  he  did  go  right  to  sleep  in  his  chair. 
But  the  queer  thing  was  that  he  began  to 
dream.  And  the  dream  went  on  from  right 
where  he  was.  On  the  Christmas  tree  the 
candles  were  burning  low,  and  he  dreamed 
that  another  went  out,  and  another  and  an- 
other, until  at  last  only  one  was  burning  at 
the  top  of  the  tree,  but  it  was  burning  very 
brightly,  as  if  it  could  burn  on  and  on.  And 
then  a  wonderful  thing  happened.  A  beau- 
tiful white  angel  with  snowy  wings  came  right 
into  the  room  and  picked  the  candle  off  the 
tree—" 

"Say,  I'd  like  to  have  had  that  dream," 
cried  Tom,  his  eyes  bright  with  interest. 

"The  angel  took  the  candle  and  brought 
it  right  over  to  the  little  boy  and  said,  'Take 
this  candle,  and  put  it  in  your  heart,  and 
keep  it  burning  there  forever.' 

"But  just  at  that  moment  a  hand  was  put 
on  the  little  boy's  shoulder,  and  the  big,  strong 
voice  of  his  father  cried  out:  'What,  sound 
asleep!  Well,  it's  bedtime  now,  sure  enough,' 
and  he  was  picked  up  and  carried  away  to 
bed  in  his  father's  arms.  As  they  went  he 
muttered,  sleepily,  'Don't  let  the  angel  go 
away,  and  be  sure  and  keep  the  candle  burn- 


BY  THE  LIBRARY  FIRE  27 

ing.'  And  by  this  time  he  was  sound  asleep 
again,  and  the  sleep  was  so  deep  that  he  didn't 
dream  any  more." 

There  was  only  a  little  time  of  silence, 
when  Mary  cried  out,  "I  know  what  it  means. 
The  candle  and  the  Christmas  song  are  the 
same  thing." 

Mary  sometimes  had  flashes  of  understand- 
ing and  insight  which  fairly  startled  us.  One 
of  them  came  to  her  now.  She  looked  up  at 
her  grandmother  saying: 

"I  guess  you  have  the  Christmas  song  in 
your  heart  and  the  candle  burning  there, 
too,  or  you  could  never  have  thought  of  the 
stories." 

Over  in  my  alcove  I  was  repeating  to  my- 
self the  words  of  Matthew  Arnold: 

"Quench  then  the  altar  fires  of  your  old  gods, 
Quench  not  the  fire  within." 

And  once  more  my  eyes  fell  on  the  words 
marked  in  Silvester  Home's  book,  "Keeping 
the  soul  alive." 

"That's  what  she  is  doing  for  these  chil- 
dren," I  said,  softly,  and  slipped  quietly  out 
of  the  room. 


Ill 

THE  UNDESERVING  POOR 

IT  was  a  bitterly  cold  Saturday  in  midwinter. 
The  little  old  lady  was  sitting  by  a  cheerful 
fire.  There  was  an  unusual  frown  on  her  face 
as  she  read  from  a  paper.  She  threw  the  sheet 
down  a  bit  impatiently,  saying:  "Here's  a  glow- 
ing tribute  to  a  philanthropist  who  has  done 
much  for  the  'deserving  poor.'  I'd  like  to  know 
what  he's  done  for  the  undeserving  poor.  They 
are  the  real  problem.  And  how  they  do  need 
help!" 

The  daughter  of  the  little  old  lady  smiled  as 
she  rose  to  leave  the  room. 

"Well,  we  will  put  you  over  against  that  staid 
and  proper  philanthropist,  as  the  friend  of  the 
unworthy.  I  think  sometimes  I'd  like  to  put  a 
sign  above  your  door,  with  the  inscription,  'Who- 
ever doesn't  deserve  a  friend  is  welcome  here.' ' 

The  eyes  of  the  little  old  lady  grew  suddenly 
serious. 

"No,"  she  said,  "that  signboard  doesn't  be- 
long to  me.  But  it  does  belong  to  my  Master. 

28 


THE  UNDESERVING  POOR  29 

And  I'd  like  to  believe  that  I've  learned  from 
him,"  she  added,  wistfully,  "to  be  a  friend  to 
the  other  publicans  and  sinners." 

"Other  publicans  and  sinners,  indeed!"  cried 
her  daughter,  as  she  stooped  to  kiss  the  little 
old  lady,  with  suspicious  moisture  in  her  eyes. 
"You  wonderful  mother,  I  won't  have  you  call- 
ing yourself  names.  But  there,  I  must  go 
now— 

At  this  moment  the  doorbell  rang.  A  window 
looking  out  of  the  living  room  commanded  a 
good  view  of  the  piazza,  where  a  poorly  clad 
man  stood  shivering  before  the  door. 

"Here  he  is!"  cried  the  daughter.  "Talk 
about  the  undeserving  poor  and  he  appears. 
I've  never  seen  him  before.  But  one  glance 
tells  the  story.  The  express  train  by  which 
that  man  traveled  to  poverty  was  the  'Drink 
Overland.'  I'll  leave  him  to  his  fate.  But  I 
know  what  kind  of  fate  it  will  be." 

She  passed  quickly  from  the  room,  just  as  a 
servant  appeared. 

"A  man  at  the  door  says  he  would  like  to  see 
you,  Mrs.  Morley." 

"Send  him  right  in,"  said  the  little  old  lady, 
seating  herself  a  thought  more  firmly  in  her 
chair. 


30  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

It  was  a  very  innocent  and  unsuspicious- 
looking  person,  however,  whom  the  man,  with 
marks  of  dissipation  on  his  face  and  of  poverty 
on  his  clothes,  faced  a  few  minutes  later.  She 
had  risen  and  greeted  him  in  a  voice  of  quiet 
friendliness.  Then  she  motioned  him  to  a 
chair  near  her  own,  saying, 

"Your  name  is — ?" 

"James  Bordon,"  replied  the  man,  evidently 
more  engaged  for  the  moment  with  the  physical 
comfort  of  being  shut  in  from  the  cold  than 
with  the  question  he  was  answering.  He  was 
rather  tall,  and  under  the  lines  of  dissipation  on 
his  face  there  were  unmistakable  marks  of 
breeding.  Despite  his  frayed  and  worn  cloth- 
ing, he  took  his  chair  with  a  certain  easy  bear- 
ing, which  told  of  other  days,  and  of  a  life 
where  even  small  details  of  movement  were 
made  to  express  gentle  and  gracious  ways  of 
living. 

"You  wished  to  see  me,  Mr.  Bordon?"  in- 
quired the  little  old  lady,  as  he  made  no  move- 
ment to  speak. 

The  man  started,  and  with  a  rueful,  half 
apologetic  smile  said,  "You  must  pardon  me; 
just  the  comfort  of  this  room  made  me  forget 
myself — and  my  errand." 


THE  UNDESERVING  POOR  31 

He  scanned  the  little  old  lady's  face  closely. 
The  shrewd,  alert,  wily  look  in  his  eye  did  not 
escape  her. 

"The  fact  of  the  matter  is,  Mrs.  Morley"  (he 
had  found  her  name  in  a  telephone  book),  "the 
fact  of  the  matter  is  I'm  in  trouble.  I've  no 
possible  claim  on  you,  except  that  of  a  man 
who  is  down  and  out."  He  had  leaned  toward 
her  with  a  movement  and  tone  which  had  some 
subtle  appeal  in  them. 

"It's  all  my  own  fault,"  he  went  on.  "I've 
been  the  kind  of  speculator  the  moralists  hold 
up  to  high  scorn.  I've  invested  friends  and 
manhood  as  well  as  money  in  drink — and  now 
I  have  nothing  left  except  hunger — and  a  wife 
who  is  hungry  too." 

Did  the  little  old  lady  imagine  that  he 
paused  a  moment  while  his  eye  searched  hers, 
to  see  the  effect  of  his  announcement  about  his 
wife? 

She  had  scarcely  time  to  make  up  her  mind, 
as  he  continued:  "Yes,  there  is  something  else. 
I  am  an  inventor.  It's  a  sure  thing,  my  inven- 
tion, and  my  wife  will  be  all  right,  and  I'll  have 
a  chance  to  fight  my  fight,  if  we  can  just  be 
helped  over  the  present  predicament.  Here's  a 
letter  which  came  from  my  wife  to-day." 


32  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

He  pulled  from  his  pocket  a  letter — without 
any  envelope,  the  little  old  lady  noticed.  "She 
is  five  hundred  miles  from  here,  and  waiting  for 
news  of  the  invention,  and  while  she  waits,  the 
wolf  isn't  merely  at  the  door.  It's  running 
madly  all  through  the  house." 

Looking  very  innocent  and  very  kindly  still, 
the  little  old  lady  rang  for  a  servant. 

"Will  you  serve  tea  now,"  she  said,  "and 
bring  some  hot  coffee  and  chicken  sandwiches 
with  the  tea." 

The  man  was  taken  aback  by  Mrs.  Morley's 
sudden  action.  He  fell  silent.  Then  he  became 
subtly  aware  that  the  little  old  lady  wanted 
him  to  be  silent,  and,  master  of  adroit  conver- 
sation as  he  usually  was,  he  was  not  able  to  find 
anything  to  say.  He  moved  uneasily  in  his 
chair,  but  nothing  was  said  until  the  servant 
appeared,  conveying  a  tray  upon  which  was  an 
unusually  beautiful  silver  service,  with  tea  and 
coffee,  sandwiches  and  cake. 

As  if  he  had  been  an  honored  guest,  the  little 
old  lady  poured  out  the  steaming  coffee.  "You 
take  cream,  and  how  many  lumps  of  sugar?" 
she  said. 

Easily  falling  into  her  mood — being  socially 
adjustable  was  his  forte — the  man  replied, 


THE  UNDESERVING  POOR  33 

"Yes,  two,  please,"  and  reached  forth  his 
hand. 

There  was  the  look  of  a  very  hungry  man  in 
his  eye,  but  be  ate  with  a  certain  quiet  delibera- 
tion. 

"A  thoroughbred  as  to  manners,  however 
weak  and  bad  he  is,"  was  the  thought  which 
flashed  through  the  mind  of  his  hostess.  She 
was  a  master  in  her  own  way  at  the  creating 
of  atmospheres,  and  a  gentle,  genial  serenity 
seemed  all  about  the  man,  as  he  continued  eat- 
ing while  she  daintily  drank  her  tea. 

In  the  most  natural  way  in  the  world  she 
prolonged  her  tiny  cup  and  her  thin  sandwich 
until  she  made  it  seem  almost  a  favor  for  him 
to  go  on  eating  to  keep  her  company.  He 
realized  that  he  had  eaten  heartily,  and  more 
than  one  cup  of  exhilarating  coffee  had  been 
handed  to  him,  when  the  bell  was  rung  and  the 
servant  carried  away  the  tray,  the  silver  service, 
and  the  empty  dishes. 

A  new  look  came  into  the  eyes  of  the  little 
old  lady.  The  man  realized  that  he  had  not 
fathomed  her  at  all.  She  leaned  toward  him. 

"Now,"  she  said  with  a  strange  combination 
of  friendliness  and  sternness,  "I  must  tell  you 
that  I  don't  believe  a  word  you  say — except 


34  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

about  the  drinking.  There  is  no  invention  and 
there  is  no  wife!" 

The  man  was  completely  nonplussed.  For 
the  moment  his  wits  forsook  him.  Perhaps 
protestations  would  move  this  old  lady  with 
the  strangely  penetrating  eyes.  He  rose  dra- 
matically. "I  assure  you,  madam,"  he  cried, 
attempting  to  strike  an  attitude,  "that  every 
word  which  I  have  told  you  is  entirely  true." 

He  never  knew  how  it  happened,  but  the 
smooth  hardwood  floor  seemed  to  move  beneath 
his  unaccustomed  feet,  and  he  slipped  and  fell. 

There  was  no  screen  in  front  of  the  fire,  and 
as  he  fell  his  arm  went  straight  into  the  fire- 
place. Wildly  clutching  for  something  to  hold, 
he  suddenly  drew  back  his  hand,  realizing  that 
his  sleeve  was  in  the  fire.  But  it  was  too  late. 
A  thread  of  fire  wound  along  his  arm.  It  be- 
came a  blaze,  and  in  a  moment  his  coat  was 
burning. 

The  little  old  lady  had  risen. 

"Roll  over  to  the  right,"  she  cried.  She 
seized  a  beautiful  rug  which  lay  near  her,  and 
flung  it  over  the  man,  wrapping  it  about  him. 
She  beat  upon  it  with  her  hands,  and  with  her 
delicate  fingers  actually  smothered  some  fire 
which  crept  beyond  the  rug. 


THE  UNDESERVING  POOR  35 

In  a  moment  it  was  all  over.  The  fire  was 
out  and  the  man  was  safe.  When  he  rose  he 
realized,  to  his  surprise,  that  he  was  not  seri- 
ously burned.  But  the  shabby  and  ragged  over- 
coat he  had  worn  was  ruined.  The  coat  beneath 
showed  the  effects  of  the  accident.  Yet  the 
man  himself  was  not  burned  enough  to  involve 
any  serious  consequences. 

When  all  this  became  clear  to  him,  he  turned 
to  the  little  old  lady.  She  was  standing  with 
her  hands  behind  her  and  her  lips  compressed. 

"You're  quite  right,"  he  said,  brokenly. 
"There's  no  invention  and  there's  no  wife.  I 
have  no  right  to  ask  your  pardon,  and  I  have 
no  right  to  thank  you.  If  you'll  allow  me,  I 
think  I  will  go."  There  was  a  dull  misery  in 
his  eye  as  he  spoke. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  said  the  little  old  lady. 
She  pointed  to  a  purse  lying  on  the  table. 
"Will  you  be  land  enough  to  open  that  for  me? 
I  fear  I  cannot  use  my  hands  just  now." 

"What,  your  hands  are  burned!"  said  the 
man,  bitterly,  making  no  movement  toward  the 
purse. 

"It's  of  no  consequence.  Don't  be  alarmed," 
said  she,  "but  please  open  the  purse  for  me." 

Something  in  her  eye  caused  him  to  obey  at 


36  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

once.  There  were  a  number  of  bills  in  the 
purse. 

"Now,  will  you  take  five  dollars,  please?" 
said  the  little  old  lady;  "that  will  cover  your 
needs  until  Monday.  And  on  Monday  morning 
I  want  you  to  come  and  see  me.  And  will  you 
take  my  card — there  in  the  side  case — and 
present  it  at  Smith  and  Layton's  clothing  store. 
Before  you  reach  the  store  I  will  have  arrange- 
ments made,  and  they  will  supply  you  with  an 
outfit  to  take  the  place  of  the  one  which  my 
deceptive  floor  has  ruined.  Now  I  think  I  must 
say  good  afternoon." 

There  was  something  so  decisive  in  her  tones 
and  bearing  that  the  man  at  once  took  the  card 
and  departed.  He  did  not  see  the  little  old  lady 
totter  as  she  rang  for  a  servant.  But  he  was 
accustomed  to  observe  closely,  and  he  feared 
the  very  thing  had  happened  which  he  did  not 
see. 

Saturday  night  a  wonderful  box  of  flowers 
came  from  the  leading  florist  of  the  city,  ad- 
dressed to  Mrs.  Morley.  Sunday  morning  a 
comfortably  clad  man  inquired  at  the  door  as 
to  Mrs.  Morley 's  condition,  but  refused  to  give 
his  name. 

Monday  morning  the  same  man  appeared,  and 


THE  UNDESERVING  POOR  37 

giving  the  name  of  James  Bordon,  was,  accord- 
ing to  the  old  lady's  directions,  ushered  into  the 
beautiful  room  where  she  was  still  confined  to 
her  bed.  He  was  all  solicitude  and  shame  as  he 
looked  at  the  bandaged  hands,  but  the  little  old 
lady  at  once  caught  a  new  look  in  his  eye. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  gently,  "how  you  have 
gotten  through  these  cold  nights.  I'm  afraid 
you  didn't  use  very  wisely  the  money  I  gave 

you." 

"Do  you  know,"  said  the  man,  "the  moment 
I  left  the  house  with  five  dollars  I  wanted  to 
drink.  I  wanted  it  so  badly  that  I  felt  as  if  I 
must  have  it.  Then  when  I  was  fairly  ready  to 
go  to  a  saloon,  I  remembered  your  burned 
hands,  and  I  just  couldn't.  And  I  couldn't  use 
the  money  for  myself. 

"I  went  to  the  clothing  store  and  was  fitted 
out,  then  went  to  a  florist's  and — yes,  I  spent  it 
all  for  flowers  to  send  to  you.  Something  inside 
seemed  to  snap  as  I  did  it,  and  something  else 
seemed  to  get  a  grip.  I  started  out,  and  if 
you'll  believe  it,  Saturday  afternoon  as  it  was, 
I  found  a  bit  of  honest  work  to  do,  and  so  I've 
been  self-supporting  over  Sunday. 

"And,"  here  his  eyes  kindled,  "I'm  to  go 
right  back  from  here  to  work.  It's  work  I  once 


38  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

would  have  despised.  The  queer  thing  about  it 
is  that  I  seem  to  be  willing  to  do  it,  and  every- 
thing seems  changed,  just  because  of  your 
burned  hands." 

A  strong,  clear  light  was  in  his  eye.  He 
talked  very  frankly  now  of  his  past  life,  and 
without  disguise  told  the  little  old  lady  things 
no  other  ear  had  ever  heard.  Then  he  talked 
of  the  future,  and  his  face  set  in  hard,  strong 
lines  as  he  spoke.  It  was  not  a  long  call,  for  his 
work  was  waiting. 

When  he  rose  to  go  the  little  old  lady  said, 
"I'm  sorry  I  can't  shake  hands  with  you,  but — 
I  believe  every  word  you  say." 


IV 

THE  SEVEN  STARS 

MAX  NEWTON  wrote  his  first  novel, 
The  Hilltop,  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
three.  It  was  praised  by  the  critics  and  ig- 
nored by  the  public.  Max  had  a  trick  of 
haunting  phrases  which  had  won  him  much 
distinction  at  college.  The  plot  of  his  book 
was  clever.  The  construction  was  extremely 
good  for  a  first  attempt.  The  story  really 
moved  in  a  quiet  way,  and  there  was  a  half 
impalpable  charm  about  the  style  which  caught 
the  attention  of  a  number  of  men  sensitive 
to  delicate  effects.  But  the  general  public 
simply  passed  the  book  by. 

"It  was  too  good  to  fail  and  not  good  enough 
to  succeed,"  said  the  head  of  the  sales  depart- 
ment to  the  publisher. 

"Too  subtle  for  the  crowd  and  not  involved 
enough  for  the  highbrows,"  said  a  clever 
observer  of  literary  happenings  whom  Max 
Newton  knew. 

He  was  talking  it  over  with  the  little  old 

39 


40  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

lady  one  afternoon.  We  all  had  a  way  of 
sharing  every  experience  with  her.  She  knew 
Max  very  well,  and  when  he  said,  "Now, 
Mrs.  Morley,  won't  you  tell  me  what  is  the 
matter  with  it?"  her  reply  was  ready.  There 
was  a  flash  in  her  eye  which  mingled  honest 
affection  and  critical  appraisal. 

"Well,  Max,"  she  said,  "if  you  really  want 
to  know,  I  think  I  can  tell  you.  It's  clever 
rather  than  human."  She  waited  a  moment 
while  he  knitted  his  brows  in  thought.  Then 
she  continued:  "The  fact  of  the  matter  is, 
Max,  that  your  ideas  have  outrun  your  expe- 
riences, and  your  emotions  have  outrun  your 
human  contacts,  and  so  with  all  the  clever- 
ness, and  charm,  and  the  real  distinction  to 
be  found  in  the  book,  it  doesn't  strike  a  note 
which  is  compellingly  authentic.  It  talks 
about  life  very  brilliantly,  but  it  doesn't 
come  out  of  life." 

"And  what  am  I  to  do  about  it?"  asked  Max. 

"You'll  have  to  live,"  was  the  quick  reply 
of  the  little  old  lady. 

Max  Newton  walked  away  pondering  the 
words  of  his  friend.  He  thought  much  about 
them,  and  even  read  The  Hilltop  through 
with  them  in  his  mind.  Perhaps  this  very 


THE  SEVEN  STARS  41 

conversation  had  much  to  do  with  his  going 
to  New  York  city  that  fall.  His  gift  of  quick, 
racy,  expressive  writing  quickly  secured  for 
him  a  position  with  a  great  daily,  and  he  ap- 
plied himself  diligently  to  the  long  and  tedious 
apprenticeship  which  this  particular  organ  of 
public  opinion  requires  of  its  reporters. 

Five  years  passed  by.  We  all  knew  that 
Max  Newton  was  doing  well.  But  he  seemed 
quite  engrossed  with  life  in  New  York  and 
with  his  work  on  the  paper.  No  new  book 
was  published.  We  were  wondering  if  he 
had  decided  to  abandon  a  literary  career,  when 
The  Seven  Stars  suddenly  appeared.  It  can- 
not be  denied  that  the  book  gave  us  all  a 
decided  jolt.  It  was  not  that  it  lacked  energy 
and  power.  Elizabeth  Dalrymple,  who  had 
a  way  of  sizing  up  people  and  situations  and 
books  in  a  sentence,  declared  that  it  had 
nothing  but  energy,  "energy  gone  mad."  It 
was  a  success  from  the  very  moment  of  its 
publication.  At  the  end  of  four  months  a 
hundred  thousand  copies  had  sold,  and  before 
the  end  of  the  year  it  had  a  place  near  the 
head  of  the  list  of  best  sellers.  I  bought  it 
just  before  taking  a  railroad  journey  and  I 
confess  that  it  gave  me  a  bad  evening.  It 


42  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

had  a  strange  secret  of  fascination.  You  were 
caught  in  the  current  of  the  story  and  were 
simply  swept  along  to  the  conclusion.  The 
characters  stood  out  sharp  and  clear,  each 
with  a  decided  individuality.  The  descrip- 
tions were  brief  and  epigrammatic,  but  every 
one  flashed  its  picture  quickly  and  decisively 
into  your  mind.  It  was  undeniably  a  very 
unusual  piece  of  workmanship,  and  every 
page  showed  shrewd  observation  of  men  and 
things.  The  first  thing  I  did  not  like  was 
the  pervasive  spirit  of  cynicism.  It  gave 
a  certain  unpleasant  hardness  to  the  book. 
Then  there  was  a  sordidness  of  soul  which 
appeared  again  and  again.  You  were  in- 
troduced to  a  company  of  people  who  thought 
more  about  what  things  cost  than  what  they 
were  worth.  But  worst  of  all  there  was  an 
unblushing  appeal  to  the  lower  appetites 
which  quite  staggered  me.  Some  of  the  scenes 
would  have  been  terrible  reading  for  a  man's 
mother.  It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  the 
sensitive,  high-souled  Max  Newton  could  have 
written  them.  As  I  read  the  last  chapter  the 
little  old  lady  came  into  my  mind.  What 
would  she  think  of  this  sort  of  thing  from 
one  of  her  boys? 


THE  SEVEN  STARS  43 

It  was  several  years  before  I  heard  just 
what  she  did  think,  and  the  story  of  the  memor- 
able interview  which  put  an  end  to  Max  New- 
ton's career  as  a  writer  of  questionable  novels. 
He  himself  told  me  the  story  one  night  in  a 
hotel  in  Philadelphia,  and  with  his  sense  of 
the  dramatic  and  his  power  of  description  he 
did  full  justice  to  the  interview,  even  if  its 
point  was  all  against  him. 

It  seems  that  about  eight  months  after 
the  publication  of  The  Seven  Stars,  Max 
came  home  from  New  York  for  a  brief  visit. 
Of  course  he  could  not  go  back  without  look- 
ing in  on  the  little  old  lady,  though  he  con- 
fessed to  me  that  he  had  a  vague  dread  of 
meeting  her.  Timidity  was  not  one  of  Max 
Newton's  outstanding  characteristics,  however, 
and  he  was  able  usually  to  carry  off  the  most 
difficult  situations. 

He  found  Mrs.  Morley  seated  in  the  library, 
surrounded  by  her  books,  and  making  so 
charming  a  figure  in  her  delicate  gown,  with 
her  cameo  face,  that  an  involuntary  expression 
of  admiration  escaped  him.  Her  greeting  was 
cordiality  itself,  and  soon  they  were  chatting 
amiably  together  with  the  kind  of  mental 
sword  play  which  was  a  delight  to  them  both. 


44.  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

Perhaps  the  interview  was  not  going  to  be 
so  difficult  after  all. 

At  length  the  little  old  lady  said,  "I've 
read  The  Seven  Stars,  Max." 

"And  you  haven't  anything  very  good  to 
say  of  the  author,  I  dare  say?"  replied  that 
same  author,  deciding  to  take  the  situation 
by  the  horns. 

"The  author  successfully  kept  all  the  good 
things  about  him  out  of  the  book,"  declared 
the  little  old  lady,  looking  him  steadily  in 
the  eye. 

"O,  come  now,  Mrs.  Morley,"  said  Max; 
"of  course  I  knew  you  wouldn't  like  it.  But 
don't  rub  it  in  too  hard.  You  know  times 
have  changed  and  we've  got  to  treat  things 
in  an  out-and-out  way  to  get  hold  of  the  public." 

"Still  it's  rather  disconcerting  to  pick  up 
a  book  by  a  man  one  supposed  to  be  a  man 
with  brains  and  to  find  he  is  only  a  man  with 
a  stomach." 

An  angry  flush  came  over  Max  Newton's 
face.  This  was  not  exactly  the  sort  of  attack 
he  had  expected.  He  quickly  controlled  him- 
self, however,  as  he  replied  with  a  delicate 
chivalry  of  tone  which  had  done  execution  in 
many  a  trying  situation. 


THE  SEVEN  STARS  45 

"My  dear  friend,  no  one  appreciates  or 
honors  the  white  temple  where  you  dwell 
and  the  noble  guardian  of  the  shrine  more 
than  I.  And  I  can  quite  understand  how  my 
story  must  seem  to  you  a  wind  from  an  evil 
world.  But  it  is  a  real  world.  And  did  not 
you  yourself  tell  me  that  I  must  live?" 

Two  sparks  came  quickly  into  the  little 
old  lady's  eyes.  That  they  were  danger  sig- 
nals Max  knew  well  and  he  waited  anxiously 
for  her  next  word.  She  looked  him  over  stead- 
ily and  then  said  in  a  tone  whose  quiet  had 
a  curious  intensity  in  it: 

"I  will  grant  that  no  one  could  deny  that 
this  book  comes  out  of  your  life." 

The  flush  of  anger  came  again  to  his  face 
and  this  time  his  emotions  were  too  much 
for  him.  He  did  not  have  entire  self-command 
as  he  replied. 

"Is  it  fair  for  you  in  your  cloistered  life 
to  pronounce  judgment?  What  do  you  know 
of  the  life  a  man  meets  in  the  rush  and  move- 
ment of  the  world?  I  will  grant  that  you  are 
an  expert  in  the  Essays  of  Elia,  but  this  is 
a  different  matter." 

No  one  of  her  boys  had  ever  gone  so  far 
before.  But  the  little  old  lady  was  not  one 


46  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

who  would  resent  an  affront  when  that  resent- 
ment might  rob  her  of  an  opportunity  to  save 
a  life  from  folly  and  failure.  With  her  char- 
acteristic mastery  of  mood,  she  suddenly  re- 
lieved the  atmosphere  of  tension  as  she  said 
with  an  amused  smile,  "Why,  my  dear  boy, 
I  knew  the  French  realism  thoroughly  before 
you  were  born!" 

Max  knew  her  campaign  tactics.  He  was 
fighting  a  hard  battle,  and  he  refused  to  ac- 
cept her  change  of  mood.  Only  his  gift  of 
audacity  could  possibly  save  him.  He  resolved 
to  risk  everything  on  that. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "You  read  the  French 
realism  of  a  generation  ago,  but  did  you  under- 
stand it?" 

The  little  old  lady  sat  very  still.  He  watched 
her  face  with  a  curious  fascination.  He  had 
never  seen  the  face  which  looked  at  him  in 
a  moment,  a  strange,  disillusioned  face  with 
heartbreak  in  it,  and  yet  in  the  eyes  a  stern, 
strong  hope.  He  was  quite  silent  until  she 
spoke. 

"Max,"  she  said,  "many  years  ago  my 
own  brother  came  home  from  Paris  to  die. 
He  had  lived  in  the  Latin  Quarter  for  sev- 
eral years.  He  had  tried  to  believe  that  a 


THE  SEVEN  STARS  47 

man  is  a  body  and  that  it  is  an  impertinence 
to  talk  of  the  rights  of  the  soul.  He  had  lived 
out  his  theory  with  entire  consistency.  I 
cared  for  him  during  the  last  two  weeks  of 
his  life.  Most  of  the  time  he  was  delirious. 
He  said  to  me  the  things  he  had  said  to  young 
men  in  Paris  and  the  things  which  they  had 
said  to  him.  He  repeated  the  words  he  had 
spoken  to  women  in  Paris.  He  uttered  aloud 
the  thoughts  which  had  been  his  in  his  most 
completely  abandoned  moods.  I  was  saved 
from  nothing.  He  made  me  share  his  worst 
experiences.  And  I  could  not  help  but  under- 
stand." 

The  room  was  very  quiet  for  several  mo- 
ments. Something  clutched  hard  at  the  throat 
of  Max  Newton.  His  face  was  very  white 
and  his  tone  a  little  unsteady  when  he  said 
at  last:  "Can  you  forgive  me,  Mrs.  Morley? 
I  did  not  know  that  I  was  opening  an  old 
wound." 

There  was  a  stern  and  terrible  indigna- 
tion in  her  reply. 

"That  is  not  the  important  matter,  Max. 
It  is  not  a  question  of  old  wounds.  It  is  the 
new  wounds.  Your  book,  so  full  of  fascination 
and  allurement,  is  in  the  hands  of  hundreds 


48  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

of  thousands  of  young  men  to-day.  What 
have  you  to  say  to  their  sisters?  Can  you 
see  their  eyes,  bright  with  the  light  of  the 
judgment  of  the  pure  womanhood  of  the 
world?" 

Again  there  was  that  tense,  hard  silence. 
Then  the  little  old  lady  went  on:  "There 
are  two  voices  in  the  heart  of  every  man. 
One  is  the  voice  of  a  beast.  One  is  the  voice 
of  a  man's  soul.  Your  book  gives  a  new  com- 
pulsion to  the  voice  of  the  beast." 

Max  was  staring  blankly  before  him,  and 
suddenly  lowered  his  head  and  held  it  tightly 
in  his  hands.  As  he  sat  so  the  little  old  lady 
spoke  again:  "The  day  my  brother  died  he 
had  a  completely  rational  hour.  He  looked 
at  me  with  trouble  in  his  eyes.  'Have  I  been 
saying  things  to  you,  Sis?'  he  asked.  There 
was  only  one  reply  that  I  could  make,  and 
the  trouble  in  his  eyes  deepened.  He  felt 
feebly  for  my  hand.  'I  don't  mean  them 
any  more,'  he  said,  and  summoning  all  his 
strength  he  added,  'I  mean  just  the  other 
thing!'  " 

Still  Max  sat  silent  with  his  head  between 
his  hands.  The  little  old  lady  put  her  own 
hand  gently  on  his  head. 


THE  SEVEN  STARS  49 

"That's  what  I  want  from  you,  Max,"  she 
said.  "I  want  you  to  mean  the  other  thing." 

Max  sprang  to  his  feet  and  seized  Mrs.  Mor- 
ley's  hand.  "I  don't  deserve  to  call  you  my 
friend,"  he  said,  huskily.  "But  I  do  thank  you 
for  your  surgery.  The  operation  has  been  suc- 
cessful, and,"  here  he  spoke  with  a  low  intensity 
in  which  his  whole  personality  seemed  expressed, 
"the  patient  must  survive  to  mean  the  other 
thing." 

With  his  characteristic  abandon  in  talking 
with  intimate  friends,  Max  had  told  me  the 
whole  story  as  if  some  third  person  had  been 
the  man  involved.  At  its  close  we  sat  in  the 
kind  of  friendly  quiet  in  which  words  are  not 
needed.  The  atmosphere  seemed  somehow 
charged  by  the  presence  of  that  quiet,  powerful 
personality  we  all  loved  so  well. 

"Say,  old  chap,"  said  Max  at  last,  "do  you 
think  I  can  ever  make  her  glad  and  proud  and 
contented  with  me?  Anyhow  I'm  going  to  try." 

He  did  try  and  how  well  he  succeeded  the 
public  which  so  eagerly  devours  his  books  may 
tell. 


IN  THE  MIDDLE  OF  THE  NIGHT 

THE  room  was  very  quiet.  In  fact,  it  was 
altogether  too  quiet.  Mrs.  Morley  awoke 
with  a  start.  She  had  a  distinct  feeling  that 
there  had  just  been  a  noise.  Now  the  stillness 
was  complete.  It  had  an  arresting  quality  as  if 
by  some  strange  process  stillness  had  become  a 
sort  of  noise.  The  little  old  lady  lay  tense  with 
a  curious  expectancy.  The  quiet  seemed  like  a 
falling  object  which  in  a  little  while  must  strike 
something  and  break  into  bits.  For  a  few  long 
minutes  nothing  happened.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
it  was  only  a  dream  which  had  left  her  with 
such  a  strange  and  alert  awareness.  She  re- 
solved to  compose  her  mind  and  quiet  her 
nerves  and  go  to  sleep.  But  just  in  the  instant 
of  making  this  decision  she  heard  a  furtive 
movement  like  the  creak  of  a  shoe.  Deftly 
moving  her  hand  she  pressed  the  button  near 
her  pillow.  A  flood  of  light  flashed  through  the 
room,  and  there  by  her  dresser  stood  the 
burglar. 

so 


MIDDLE  OF  THE  NIGHT  51 

Even  as  his  eyes  were  becoming  accustomed 
to  the  sudden  glow  of  light  Mrs.  Morley  formed 
a  distinct  picture  of  the  man  who  had  broken 
into  her  room.  He  was  a  little  below  medium 
height,  with  a  lithe,  muscular  body.  His  face, 
with  its  fiercely  flashing  eyes,  was  rather  ter- 
rifying, but  Mrs.  Morley  quickly  reflected  that 
startled  by  the  sudden  invasion  of  light  he  was 
probably  for  the  moment  more  fearful  than  she. 
He  made  a  quick  movement  toward  a  rear 
trousers  pocket,  doubtless  for  his  gun.  Then 
Mrs.  Morley  spoke. 

"Pray,  don't  be  alarmed,"  she  said.  "I  have 
no  intention  of  hurting  you.  You  can  probably 
do  your  work  better  with  the  light  turned  on. 
It  must  be  awkward  moving  about  in  the  dark." 

The  startled  look  vanished  from  the  face  of 
the  burglar,  and  a  slow  grin  came  in  its  place. 
"Well,  you  are  a  dead  game  sport,"  he  said. 
"But  perhaps  I  love  darkness  rather  than 
light." 

If  there  had  been  any  invisible  tremor  about 
Mrs.  Morley's  person,  the  burglar's  grin  reas- 
sured her,  and  she  flashed  back: 

"That  must  be  because  your  deeds  are  evil." 

The  burglar  was  surveying  her  with  a  very 
direct  and  all-inclusive  scrutiny. 


52  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

"You  put  over  that  matter  of  getting  on  the 
light  pretty  smoothly,"  he  said  at  length  in  a 
low  voice  which  had  a  compelling  quality  in  it. 
"Now,  I  wonder  if  you  have  any  other  little 
buttons  about  that  bed." 

"Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Morley  at  once.  "There's 
another  right  beside  it,  with  which  I  could 
have  summoned  the  butler  if  I  had  cared  to 
do  it." 

"And  why  didn't  you?"  asked  the  man, 
watching  the  door  as  well  as  the  little  old 
lady  while  he  spoke.  A  look  as  of  a  wild 
creature  poised  to  spring  came  into  his  face. 

"I  didn't,"  said  the  little  old  lady,  "because 
I  wanted  to  talk  to  you.  I  can  talk  to  my 
butler  any  day,  but  a  burglar  is  a  luxury  I 
can't  often  afford." 

The  man  chuckled,  and  an  almost  boyish 
smile  came  over  his  face. 

"Do  you  know,  I  like  you?"  he  said,  looking 
full  into  her  eyes  with  a  light  in  his  own  full  of 
something  more  like  merry  comradeship  than  the 
glitter  in  an  eye  set  for  some  criminal  act. 

Mrs.  Morley  had  been  thinking  quickly  while 
this  conversation  was  going  on.  Now  she  said, 
"If  you  don't  mind  will  you  hand  me  my  dress- 
ing gown  from  the  wardrobe  there,  and  then  if 


MIDDLE  OF  THE  NIGHT  53 

you'll  go  to  the  window  for  a  few  minutes 
I'll  be  ready  to  receive  you  in  a  more  formal 
way." 

The  burglar  bent  a  very  searching  gaze  upon 
her. 

"By  Jove!"  he  said,  "I  am  going  to  trust  you. 
I  believe  you're  the  sort  that  plays  fair." 

He  carried  out  her  directions  and  stood  for 
awhile  in  the  large  bay  window  looking  out  into 
the  night. 

When  he  turned,  Mrs.  Morley  sat  comfortably 
in  an  easy  chair,  the  rich  folds  of  the  beautiful 
dressing  gown  falling  about  her.  It  was  a  won- 
derful face  upon  which  he  looked,  with  that 
cameolike  charm  to  which  we  have  all  long  ago 
surrendered. 

"Won't  you  have  a  chair?"  said  Mrs.  Morley, 
hospitably. 

The  burglar  hesitated. 

"You  needn't  have  a  moment's  hesitation  or 
solicitude,"  said  the  little  old  lady.  "I'm  a  great 
night  owl  and  noises  never  alarm  the  servants. 
Besides,  none  of  them  are  near  enough  to  hear 
our  voices." 

The  burglar  sat  down  with  an  odd  sense  that 
the  little  old  lady  was  in  command  of  the  situa- 
tion. He  did  not  know  the  saying  frequently 


54  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

let  fall  from  the  laughing  lips  of  her  friends  that 
to  obey  her  once  was  to  be  her  slave  always. 

Now  it  was  Mrs.  Morley's  turn  to  look  search- 
ingly  into  the  face  of  the  burglar.  It  was  a  very 
human  face  with  attractive  lines,  and  the  quiet 
glow  of  the  eyes  was  something  to  remember. 

Mrs.  Morley  moved  forward  a  little,  and  with 
some  subtle  gesture  and  quick  look  of  under- 
standing, created  an  atmosphere  of  friendly 
confidence. 

"Now,  won't  you  just  tell  me  why  you  do 
it?"  she  said. 

"You  mean?"  inquired  the  man  with  some 
hesitation. 

"Breaking  into  houses,  and  taking  that  face 
and  those  eyes  where  they  haven't  any  right  to 
be,"  said  Mrs.  Morley,  suddenly. 

A  hard  look  came  over  the  man's  counte- 
nance. 

"That's  just  the  difficulty,"  he  said  in  a  cold, 
bitter  voice.  "This  face  and  these  eyes  haven't  a 
right  anywhere."  He  paused  for  a  moment, 
then  he  continued. 

"I've  had  no  end  of  handicaps.  It's  been  a 
hard  scrap  ever  since  I  was  a  little  kid.  I  had 
to  steal  to  keep  alive  then.  And  I've  been 
stealing  ever  since.  O,  yes" —  this  in  response 


MIDDLE  OF  THE  NIGHT  55 

to  a  look  which  quickly  came  into  Mrs.  Morley's 
eyes  and  which  he  as  quickly  comprehended. 
"I've  been  in  prison  more  than  once.  It's  a 
great  school,  I  can  tell  you.  I  thought  I  was  a 
tough  little  kid  when  I  went  to  prison,  but  I 
was  a  white  little  angel  beside  the  hard  nut 
who  came  out.  I  did  a  lot  of  reading  in  prison. 
That  was  worth  something.  But  everything 
else  was  the  kind  of  thing  I  can't  talk  about 
with  you.  There  was  some  things  I  wouldn't 
do.  I  wouldn't  use  dope,  and  I  wouldn't  do  the 
things  that  take  all  the  ginger  and  nerve  out  of 
a  man.  So  I've  a  sound  body.  But  I'm  a  bad 
lot.  You  really  oughtn't  to  feel  safe  sitting 
there  talking  to  me." 

There  was  an  odd  hard  irony  in  his  voice  as 
he  uttered  these  last  words. 

"But  that's  just  it,"  Mrs.  Morley  broke  in. 
"I  do  feel  safe.  And  you  give  me  the  right  to 
feel  safe.  And  with  all  the  bitter  things  you 
say  about  yourself  I  know  that  you  are  only 
telling  the  worst  part  of  the  truth.  The  other 
part,  the  best  part,  you  can't  hide,  even  if  you 
try.  Why  don't  you  give  the  other  side  a  chance 
to  be  all  there  is  of  you?" 

Mrs.  Morley  always  said  more  with  her  tones 
than  with  her  words,  and  her  tone  had  a  sort  of 


56  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

a  sturdy  fine  appeal  in  it  as  she  spoke.  The 
burglar  looked  over  at  her  as  if  fascinated  by 
her  words.  Then  the  hard  look  came  back 
again,  and  he  answered: 

"You're  fine,  sure  thing,"  and  there  was  a 
sincere  heartiness  in  his  first  words,  "but  you 
just  don't  know.  Here  you  are  with  all  these 
fine  things  and  all  this  fine  life.  What  do  you 
know  about  wanting  things  for  years,  all  the 
while  knowing  you  can't  have  them?  What  do 
you  know  about  feeling  that  right  in  front  of 
you  society  bangs  every  door  you  want  to 
enter?" 

There  was  a  sort  of  cool  triumph  in  his  words, 
as  if  he  knew  that  she  could  have  no  possible 
answer.  Little  did  he  know  of  the  power  of 
strategy  possessed  by  this  tiny  gentlewoman, 
or  of  the  lengths  to  which  she  would  go  for  the 
sake  of  bringing  help. 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  The  burglar 
moved  uneasily.  "I'm  not  knocking  you,  you 
know.  You're  all  right.  But  you  just  can't 
get  at  what  I've  been  up  against." 

When  Mrs.  Morley  raised  her  head,  he  sat 
back  silent.  Something  about  her  bearing  made 
him  listen  with  eagerness  as  she  spoke. 

"You  are  entirely  mistaken,"  she  said.     "I 


MIDDLE  OF  THE  NIGHT  57 

know  all  about  it.  All  my  life  I've  wanted 
something  I  couldn't  have.  All  my  life  I  have 
wanted  to  go  through  doors  which  wouldn't 
open." 

She  leaned  forward  as  she  continued:  "I'm 
going  to  tell  you  something  I've  never  told  any- 
body before." 

He  waited  in  tense  expectancy  until  she 
spoke.  There  was  something  half-defiant  in  her 
voice  as  she  said:  "When  I  was  a  little  girl  I 
wanted  to  be  a  boy.  And  when  I  grew  up  I 
wanted  to  be  a  man." 

In  sheer  reaction  the  burglar  forgot  his  sur- 
roundings and  burst  out  laughing. 

"Is  that  all?"  he  asked. 

Something  in  the  little  old  lady's  face  stopped 
another  outburst  of  laughter. 

"Is  that  all?"  she  repeated  in  fine  scorn. 
"You  simply  do  not  know  what  I  mean.  Can 
you  imagine  what  it  is  to  have  the  spirit  and 
temperament  of  a  boy  and  have  to  live  the  life 
of  a  girl?  Can  you  imagine  what  it  is  to  have 
the  spirit  and  temper  of  a  man  and  have  to  live 
the  life  of  a  woman?  When  little  girls  were 
doing  dainty  and  charming  things  in  the  house 
I  wanted  to  be  doing  hard,  rugged,  vigorous 
things  out  of  doors.  When  I  grew  up  I  had  a 


58  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

man's  plans  and  a  man's  ideals  and  I  had  to 
live  the  life  of  a  woman.  I've  literally  given  up 
all  the  things  I  wanted  most.  Society  closed 
with  a  bang  the  doors  I  wanted  to  enter." 

A  gleam  of  comprehension  had  come  into  the 
eyes  of  the  burglar. 

"You  mean  that  every  bit  of  you  got  mad  at 
the  things  you  had  to  do?" 

The  little  old  lady  smiled  grimly. 

"That's  about  the  way  it's  been,"  she  said. 

"Then  you  do  know  how  I  feel,"  he  admitted, 
surveying  her  curiously,  and  then  he  went  on: 
"But  what  did  you  do  about  it?  You  don't 
look  all  cut  up,  and —  "  he  hesitated  as  he  felt 
for  words,  and  then  twisting  his  sentence  he 
concluded,  "Why,  you  look  as  if  you  liked  it." 

A  sudden  light  seemed  to  suffuse  the  little 
old  lady's  face. 

"You  are  right  again,"  she  said,  looking  at 
him,  expectantly. 

"But — but — I  don't  understand,"  he  said, 
completely  at  a  loss. 

"You  don't  understand  how  I  could  hate  a 
thing  and  then  learn  to  like  it?"  she  inquired. 

He  nodded  his  head  without  speaking. 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  Mrs.  Morley,  "I 
got  it  into  my  head  that  it  was  easier  to  con- 


MIDDLE  OF  THE  NIGHT  59 

quer  myself  than  to  fight  nature.  I  made 
up  my  mind  that  it  was  better  to  accept  my 
limitations  than  to  beat  my  head  against  a 
hard  stone  wall.  I  made  up  my  mind  that 
I  wouldn't  break  in  to  get  things  I  couldn't 
have  worthily.  I  wouldn't  try  to  steal  a  man's 
life.  I'd  live  a  woman's  life.  It  was  my  hard- 
est battle.  It  took  years,  and  the  fight  left 
scars.  But  I  found  out  the  secret  at  last." 

"And  what  was  it?"  said  the  burglar,  his 
face  was  alive  with  interest. 

"That  it's  only  the  things  you  get  hon- 
estly you  can  ever  enjoy." 

The  burglar  sat  silent  awhile.  Then  he 
spoke.  And  his  words  proved  how  worthy 
he  was  of  the  little  old  lady's  confidence. 
There  was  a  great  admiration  in  his  voice 
as  he  said:  "And  that's  how  you  became  you. 
It  wasn't  the  wealth  and  the  opportunities, 
but  the  fight  and  the  winning  out." 

He  turned  away  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
went  on:  "By  Jove,  I  believe  you're  right." 
Then  he  looked  right  into  her  eyes  as  he  said: 
"Do  you  know,  I  think  I'll  have  to  strike 
another  trail?" 


VI 

THE  ECLIPSE  OF  ELIZABETH 
DALRYMPLE 


you  tell  me  why  Elizabeth  Dal- 
rymple  is  like  the  New  York  Sun?" 
asked  Jack  Meredith,  suddenly. 

A  dozen  of  the  old  crowd  sat  in  the  com- 
fortable living  room  at  Clara  Barton's.  Eliza- 
beth Dalrymple  had  just  made  one  of  her 
scintillating  remarks,  which  seemed  to  burst 
in  the  air  and  drop  live  sparks  all  around. 

"That's  easy,"  said  Joe  Lovell;  "she's  like 
the  metropolitan  luminary  because  she  gives 
light  for  all." 

"And  why  is  Jack  Meredith  like  the  Times?" 
said  Elizabeth,  quickly.  She  always  professed 
a  tremendous  admiration  for  the  way  in  which 
Jack  could  gossip  cleverly,  without  any  malice 
or  sting  in  his  speech. 

We  were  all  silent  for  awhile,  and  then 
Elizabeth  brought  out  her  answer  triumphantly  : 
"Because  he  gives  you  all  the  news  that's 
fit  to  print." 

60 


ECLIPSE  OF  ELIZABETH  61 

"That's  one  on  you,  Jack,"  said  Joe  Lovell, 
slapping  his  chum  on  the  back.  "Come,  now, 
what  have  you  to  say  for  yourself?" 

"All  that  I  know  of  a  certain  star."  Jack 
began  to  quote,  and  with  a  poignancy  which 
surprised  us  all  he  rounded  out: 

"They  must  solace  themselves  with  the  Saturn  above  it. 
What  matter  to  me  if  their  star  is  a  world? 
Mine  has  opened  its  soul  to  me;  therefore  I  love  it." 

He  was  looking  straight  at  Elizabeth  with  a 
curious  light  in  his  eye.  "I  think  I  like  Brown- 
ing's star  better  than — the  New  York  Sun," 
he  said  with  a  significance  very  thinly  veiled. 
"Some  luminaries  are  wonderfully  generous,  and 
very  indiscriminating  with  their  radiance." 

Elizabeth  was  always  able  to  defend  her- 
self, and  she  responded  with  some  bit  of  bril- 
liant chatter.  But  from  that  night  I  knew 
where  Jack's  heart  was  to  be  found,  and  I 
had  some  unexpressed  convictions  about  Eliza- 
beth. A  telltale  gleam  had  flashed  in  her 
eye  while  Jack  was  quoting  the  exquisite  bit 
of  Browning's  verse. 

Altogether  I  was  not  surprised  when  a  few 
months  later  the  engagement  of  Jack  and 
Elizabeth  was  announced,  and  I  was  ready 


62  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

for  Jack's  hearty,  irresistible  rush  upon  me 
the  day  when  he  said:  "Old  chap,  will  you 
be  an  usher  at  my  wedding?  Of  course  Joe 
Lovell  is  to  be  best  man." 

That  wedding  was  a  memorable  affair — all 
condensed  sunshine  and  the  fine  gayety  of 
friendships  tried  and  true.  We  were  like  one 
great  family,  and  the  marriage  of  Jack  and 
Elizabeth  was  an  experience  to  all  of  us.  It 
seemed  as  if  every  one  of  the  crowd  caught 
some  of  the  joy  of  it.  What  we  all  felt  was 
summed  up  by  Clara  Barton  after  the  cere- 
mony: "Now  the  two  are  one,"  she  said.  "And 
may  they  be  like  Shelley's  skylark,  which, 

'Singing  ever  soars, 

And  soaring  ever  singest.'  " 

After  the  moment's  pause,  when  we  were 
all  feeling  our  deep  good  wishes,  Joe  Lovell, 
who  never  failed  to  bring  us  back  to  the  C 
major,  said:  "The  English  skylark's  all  right 
no  doubt.  But  I  hope  Jack  and  Elizabeth 
won't  have  to  soar  out  of  sight  before  they 
drop  their  liquid  notes." 

I  went  East  that  fall,  and  it  so  happened 
that  I  did  not  see.  any  of  the  old  crowd  for 
over  two  years.  Then  one  Saturday  found 


ECLIPSE  OF  ELIZABETH  63 

me  in  Philadelphia  with  a  business  engagement 
there  on  Monday.  I  did  not  want  to  spend 
the  Sunday  in  the  Quaker  City,  and  took  a 
train  for  Beach  Haven,  running  the  risk  of 
being  unable  to  find  hotel  accommodations  in 
the  seaside  resort. 

When  I  reached  the  hotel  one  of  the  first 
things  which  met  my  eyes  was  the  laughing 
face  of  Clara  Barton.  She  was  the  center  of  a 
merry  group,  and  had  not  noticed  my  approach. 

I  was  fortunate  enough  to  secure  a  room, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  appeared  on  the  large 
piazza  looking  for  Clara.  She  was  sitting 
alone  now,  the  rest  of  the  party  having  gone 
out  on  the  beach.  Hearty  greetings  were 
soon  over  and  we  were  back  in  the  city  we 
both  loved,  among  familiar  scenes  and  with 
old  friends. 

My  questions  came  thick  and  fast,  and  the 
answers  had  the  spice  and  vivacity  which  had 
given  Clara  her  individual  place  in  the  group 
of  boys  and  girls  who  had  grown  up  together. 

When  I  mentioned  Elizabeth  Dalrymple — so 
her  name  slipped  from  my  lips — Clara's  face 
clouded. 

"You  haven't  heard  about  Elizabeth?"  she 
asked,  in  a  troubled  voice.  "Not  a  word," 


64  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

I  replied,  anxiously.  "Surely  nothing  un- 
pleasant has  happened  to  Elizabeth  and  Jack." 

Clara  rose  from  her  chair. 

"Come  out  on  the  beach,"  she  said,  "and 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 

A  wonderful  Saturday  afternoon  it  was, 
with  a  bracing  breeze  blowing  in  from  the 
sea,  the  waves  breaking  merrily  on  the  beach, 
and  the  sun  smiling  down  benevolently  on  it 
all.  As  we  walked  along  Clara  began. 

"You  know  how  we  all  felt.  Nothing  could 
be  quite  so  fine  and  beautiful  as  the  life  Jack 
and  Elizabeth  would  live  together.  Well, 
it  was  very  fine  indeed.  But  there  was  some- 
thing finer.  That  was  when  little  Jack  came. 
It  took  the  three  to  make  that  home  com- 
plete. I  used  to  feel  that  I  had  never  known 
Elizabeth  before.  Motherhood  seemed  to  have 
glorified  her.  And  Jack  hovered  about  like 
the  priest  at  a  sacred  shrine,  full  of  a  per- 
petual awe  and  solemn  joy.  It  was  all  human 
enough  too,  with  no  end  of  mirth  and  frolic. 
But  the  fun  was  always  subsiding  into  a  great 
seriousness.  I  remember  finding  them  in  the 
garden  one  summer  evening.  Little  Jack  was 
sleeping  in  his  mother's  arms,  and  Elizabeth's 
eyes  were  glowing  with  the  most  wonderful 


ECLIPSE  OF  ELIZABETH  65 

light.  Jack  sat  by  her  side,  and  his  face  had 
all  the  richness  of  peace  and  joy  and  perfect 
content  and  a  great  purpose  to  make  life 
mean  much  for  the  two  by  his  side." 

Clara  paused,  and  stood  looking  out  over 
the  sea.  A  ship  was  slowly  moving  along 
near  the  horizon,  and  her  eyes  were  fastened 
upon  it.  But  I  knew  that  she  was  not  think- 
ing of  the  ship.  A  suggestion  of  chill  had 
crept  into  the  air  as  the  afternoon  turned  into 
evening.  She  drew  more  closely  about  her 
a  light  wrap  she  was  carrying  and  continued: 

"Then  came  little  Jack's  sickness  and  death. 
It  was  like  a  flash  out  of  the  clearest  and 
brightest  sort  of  sky.  There  was  no  warning. 
Just  one  of  the  many  baby  illnesses,  the  sud- 
den development  of  alarming  symptoms  and 
the  ebbing  of  the  tide  of  life.  The  blow  quite 
crushed  Elizabeth.  She  seemed  to  have  no 
power  to  rally  from  it.  All  her  gayety  of 
spirit  has  vanished.  All  the  old  flashes  of 
brilliancy  are  gone.  She  moves  mechanically 
through  the  day's  duties.  No  one  can  rouse 
her.  It  gives  me  a  dreadful  feeling  to  be  with 
her.  One  doesn't  feel  that  it  is  Elizabeth. 
Just  a  pale  ghost  of  her  it  seems.  When  you 
look  in  her  eyes  there  is  no  light  at  all." 


66 

"And  what  about  Jack?"  I  asked. 

"Jack  is  like  a  soldier  on  a  hard  campaign. 
He  has  been  a  wonder  to  us  all.  Gentle  and 
understanding,  and  always  seeking  to  antici- 
pate Elizabeth's  slightest  wish — only  she  doesn't 
seem  to  have  any  wishes  at  all.  But  it  is 
wearing  on  Jack.  The  strain  must  be  terrible, 
and  he's  getting  thinner  all  the  while.  But 
he  never  utters  a  word  of  complaint.  And  he 
has  made  us  all  feel  that  no  words  of  sym- 
pathy will  be  welcome." 

We  talked  of  many  things  that  evening  and 
the  next  day.  But  as  I  took  the  train  back 
to  Philadelphia  the  one  thing  which  remained 
with  me  was  the  picture  of  the  desolate  home 
of  Jack  and  Elizabeth.  It  seemed  unbelievable 
and  impossible. 

Three  months  later  I  was  again  in  the  city 
of  a  thousand  memories.  The  first  afternoon 
I  met  Jack  Meredith.  His  face  was  glowing 
with  health  and  energy  and  good  spirits. 

"You  have  an  engagement  for  dinner  to- 
night," he  declared.  "Elizabeth  will  never 
forgive  me  if  I  go  home  without  you." 

My  protests  were  unavailing,  and  off  I  was 
carried  by  Jack  in  his  old  impetuous  way. 
As  we  sat  at  the  finely  appointed  table  in 


ECLIPSE  OF  ELIZABETH  67 

Jack's  charming  home  that  night  I  knew  that 
something  had  happened  since  I  had  seen 
Clara  Barton.  Elizabeth  presided  with  the 
zest  and  the  grace  and  genial  gayety  one  would 
have  expected  in  the  old  days.  There  was 
a  new  seriousness  to  her  face  when  it  was  in 
repose,  and  there  was  a  new  depth  about  her 
speech.  There  seemed  a  wonderful  group  of 
undertones  following  even  her  lightest  and 
most  merry  words.  But  in  bearing  and  ex- 
pression she  was  a  woman  who  was  finding  life 
full  and  rich  and  glad.  If  there  was  any  trace 
of  a  baptism  of  fire  through  which  Jack  and 
Elizabeth  had  passed,  it  was  only  in  the 
brighter  shining  of  the  pure  gold  of  their  devo- 
tion. 

It  was  by  degrees  and  in  fragments  that  I 
learned  the  whole  story.  Some  things  were 
told  me  by  Jack,  some  things  by  the  little 
old  lady,  and  some  by  Elizabeth  herself.  At 
last  I  put  my  mosaic  together,  and  under- 
stood how  Elizabeth  had  been  saved  from  the 
darkness  which  threatened  to  become  perma- 
nent. 

One  day  Dr.  Palmer,  the  wise  and  capable 
old  family  physician,  had  drawn  Jack  aside. 

"My   boy,"   he  said,    "you   are  carrying   a 


68  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

heavy  enough  load  now  without  my  adding 
to  its  weight.  But  you  are  a  brave  man, 
and  there's  something  I  must  tell  you." 

Jack  stood  very  still,  his  face  set  in  lines 
of  strong  and  stern  self-control.  The  doctor 
went  on: 

"Elizabeth  is  very  delicately  organized,  as 
you  know.  And  all  the  intricate  mechanism  of 
her  life  has  been  at  a  terrible  tension  for  weeks. 
She  cannot  endure  the  strain  much  longer." 

"You  mean — ?"  inquired  Jack,  reaching  out 
deliberately  for  hard  concrete  facts,  whatever 
they  might  be. 

"I  mean,"  said  Dr.  Palmer,  slowly,  "that 
Elizabeth  cannot  go  on  in  this  way  a  month 
longer  and  retain  her  reason.  We  must  rouse 
her  somehow  and  bring  this  unnatural  nervous 
tension  to  an  end." 

With  a  haggard  face  and  uncertain  steps 
Jack  sought  out  the  little  old  lady,  and 
told  her  all  that  the  physician  had  said. 
Somehow  there  was  tonic  in  her  very  presence, 
and  he  went  away  vaguely  encouraged  and 
hopeful. 

That  night  Elizabeth  received  a  note  from 
Mrs.  Morley  which  was  in  effect  a  summons. 
We  were  all  accustomed  to  obey  the  little  old 


ECLIPSE  OF  ELIZABETH  69 

lady  when  she  chose  to  command,  and  the 
next  morning  Elizabeth  set  out  for  the  home  of 
her  friend. 

It  was  a  wan  and  weary  young  woman,  with 
a  face  cold  and  almost  expressionless  and  a 
strange  mechanical  movement  as  she  walked, 
who  was  ushered  into  Mrs.  Morley's  presence 
that  day.  The  little  old  lady  quietly  motioned 
Elizabeth  to  a  chair,  quite  omitting  her  usual 
tender  and  loving  greeting.  Absorbed  as  she 
was  with  grief,  Elizabeth  noticed  the  omission 
and  looked  up  a  little  surprised. 

There  was  no  particular  friendliness  in  Mrs. 
Morley's  eyes.  She  looked  inquiringly  at  Eliza- 
beth and  said,  "Have  you  decided  where  you 
will  live  after  the  funeral?" 

Elizabeth  shuddered. 

"The  funeral?  What  do  you  mean?"  she 
asked. 

The  little  old  lady  made  no  reply  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  her  visitor  looked  at  her  with  in- 
creasing agitation.  It  was  the  first  interest  in 
a  present  conversation  which  she  had  shown  for 
weeks.  When  she  was  sure  that  she  had  Eliza- 
beth's entire  attention,  Mrs.  Morley  spoke 
again. 

"Of  course  you   must  know  that  you   are 


70  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

killing  Jack.  I  have  been  merely  wondering 
what  you  are  going  to  do  when  he  is  gone." 

"Jack — gone!"  cried  Elizabeth  in  alarm. 

"Just  that,"  said  the  little  old  lady,  re- 
morselessly. "You  see  you  have  lost  just  a 
child.  Jack  has  lost  both  a  wife  and  a  child, 
and  the  blow  is  too  much  for  him." 

Elizabeth's  face  was  no  more  white  and 
cold.  It  was  flushed  and  full  of  hot,  intense 
feeling. 

"Jack,"  she  repeated,  half  mechanically,  "has 
lost  both  a  wife  and  a  child."  Suddenly  she 
burst  into  tears. 

"Poor  Jack,"  she  sobbed,  "I  didn't  realize  that 
I  was  making  it  so  hard  for  him." 

Mrs.  Morley  was  beside  her  now,  with  her 
understanding  hand  gently  pressing  Elizabeth's 
hot  fingers,  which  opened  and  closed  convul- 
sively. For  a  little  while  the  younger  woman 
wept  quietly — her  first  tears  since  little  Jack 
had  died — then  she  looked  up  at  Mrs.  Morley. 

"I  have  been  very  selfish,"  she  said.  "But  I 
wonder  if  you  can  understand,  you  who  have 
your  grown-up  sons  and  daughters  all  about 
you." 

Mrs.  Morley  looked  right  into  her  eyes. 
"You  never  knew,  Elizabeth,"  she  inquired, 


ECLIPSE  OF  ELIZABETH  71 

"that  I  lost  my  first  boy  when  he  was  five 
years  old?" 

Elizabeth  looked  up  in  astonishment.  "Is  it 
possible,"  she  said  at  length,  "that  you  have 
gone  through  it  all?  That  you  have  felt  your 
heartstrings  drawn  until  it  has  seemed  they 
would  break  with  pain,  as  you  have  watched 
the  one  little  life  dearer  than  all  the  world  to 
you  slip  away  into  the  great  silence  from  which 
never  a  cry  comes  back?" 

Mrs.  Morley  was  quick  to  note  that,  suffering 
intensely  as  she  was,  Elizabeth's  mind  had 
begun  to  move  in  the  old  way,  thinking  by 
means  of  vivid  images.  She  knew  that  her 
treatment  was  proving  effective. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  allowing  memory  to  bring 
up  again  the  old  terrible  grief,  "I  met  all 
that." 

"And  did  you  conquer  it  at  once,  and  go 
right  on  brave  and  strong?"  asked  Elizabeth, 
piteously. 

"Far  from  that,"  replied  Mrs.  Morley.  "I 
was  lost  in  my  grief  just  as  you  have  been  lost 
in  yours.  It  seemed  as  if  I  could  get  no  help. 
Each  morning  I  faced  a  bleeding  wound.  So 
it  was  until  the  first  Easter  after  my  little  boy's 
going.  I  attended  the  service  that  morning, 


72  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

not  expecting  to  find  any  help.  There  was  a 
processional,  led  by  a  group  of  choir  boys. 
Each  carried  a  bunch  of  Easter  lilies,  and  as 
they  came  they  sang  rapturously,  'He  is  risen! 
He  is  risen!'  For  a  moment  I  had  a  vision  of 
my  own  boy  grown  a  little  older  and  marching 
in  with  such  a  group  of  choir  boys  while  his 
voice  joined  in  the  jubilant  song.  Then,  sud- 
denly, it  came  to  me  that  where  the  living 
Christ  was  there  my  little  lad  was  too.  I 
seemed  to  look  across  a  wide  field  of  exquisite, 
fragrant  lilies,  and  then  to  see  the  great,  gentle 
divine  form  of  the  risen  Christ,  and  beside  him, 
plucking  the  lilies,  was  the  form  of  my  little 
son.  And  it  came  to  me  in  the  strangest,  most 
wonderful  way,  that  I  could  trust  my  boy  with 
him/' 

The  little  old  lady  was  silent  for  a  moment. 
Then  she  said:  "It  was  often  hard  after  that, 
but  it  was  never  impossible." 

Elizabeth's  tears  fell  fast,  while  her  friend 
softly  stroked  her  brow.  The  long-closed  gates 
of  emotion  were  open,  and  nature  was  having 
its  way. 

Mrs.  Morley  allowed  her  to  give  full  expres- 
sion to  the  feelings  which  surged  within.  Then 
something  about  the  pressure  of  her  hand  re- 


ECLIPSE  OF  ELIZABETH  73 

called  Elizabeth  to  self-control.  It  was  amazing 
how  many  things  the  little  old  lady  could  say 
without  words. 

Elizabeth  yielded  to  some  gentle  ministrations 
of  her  friend.  Then  she  spoke  very  softly: 
"How  much  you  have  done  for  me  this  morn- 
ing, Mrs.  Morley !  You  have  shown  me  myself. 
You  have  shown  me  my  husband.  And  you 
have  shown  me  the  child  among  the  Easter 
lilies.  Now  I  must  go  home  and  get  ready  for 
Jack." 


VII 
SHE  DID  NOT  UNDERSTAND 

THE  room  was  bare  and  cheerless  and  ugly 
enough.  Upon  an  ill-kept  bed  in  one 
corner  lay  what  seemed  more  like  a  bundle  of 
rags  than  a  human  being.  The  little  old  lady 
had  opened  the  door  gently  and  now  moved 
very  quietly  toward  the  bed. 

"You'll  have  to  be  mighty  careful,"  she  had 
been  warned  by  the  woman  on  the  floor  below. 
"She  don't  want  anybody  around  and  she  sure 
does  talk  something  awful." 

A  ray  of  light  from  the  late  afternoon  sun 
had  managed  to  penetrate  the  forlorn  room.  It 
fell  upon  the  little  old  lady  now  as  if  trying  to 
find  one  place  in  the  room  where  there  was  a 
touch  of  beauty  and  charm.  Mrs.  Morley  wore 
a  very  quiet  simple  dress,  but  the  cameo  beauty 
of  her  face  and  the  quiet  distinction  of  her  bear- 
ing nothing  could  hide.  She  held  some  fragrant 
red  roses  in  her  hand. 

The  figure  on  the  bed  moved  restlessly,  and 

74 


SHE  DID  NOT  UNDERSTAND        75 

a  pair  of  deep,  heavy,  hopeless  eyes  was  fixed 
on  Mrs.  Morley. 

"You  get  out  of  here.  I  don't  want  to  hear 
you  talk.  I've  got  along  without  any  help  from 
your  kind  up  till  now,  and  I'll  do  without  you 
to  the  finish.  None  of  your  fishy,  sniveling  talk 
for  me." 

She  was  about  to  turn  her  face  to  the  wall 
again,  when  Mrs.  Morley  spoke  quietly. 

"Yes,  I  think  you  can  do  without  me,  but 
I  don't  think  I  can  get  along  without  you.  I 
came  because  of  something  you  can  do  for 
me." 

There  was  a  curious  sound  between  a  snort 
and  a  hard  laugh  in  the  bed. 

"Something  I  can  do  for  you !  Don't  you  see 
I'm  all  in?  'Doc'  Gilden  says  in  a  day  or  so  I'll 
hand  in  my  checks.  I'm  through.  I've  struck 
bottom.  Go  away,  won't  you,  and  let  me 
alone?" 

Mrs  Morley  was  standing  nearer  to  the  bed 
now. 

"I  understand,"  she  said  in  that  voice  whose 
subtle  sympathy  had  won  so  many.  "You  see 
I'm  almost  through  too." 

The  woman  on  the  bed  made  a  movement  in 
which  surprise  and  anger  seemed  mingled.  She 


76  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

looked  steadily  at  the  little  old  lady  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  she  said: 

"I  reckon  you're  right.  You've  come  to  the 
last  act,  sure  thing.  But  that  don't  make  you 
understand.  You've  lived  to  be  an  old  woman. 
You  have  money  and  friends.  You've  held  the 
right  cards  all  through  the  game.  Why,  do  you 
know  I'm  only  thirty,  and  life  has  been  hitting 
me  in  the  face  ever  since  I've  been  a  little  girl. 
You'll  die  one  of  these  days,  and  you  have  had 
everything  you  could  want.  I'll  likely  die  to- 
night, and  I've  had  nothing.  You  can't  talk  to 
me.  Now,  won't  you  cut  out  this  talk  and 
beat  it?" 

She  softened  a  little  and  added  as  if  the 
words  were  drawn  from  her  half  against  her 
will:  "I  guess  you  mean  all  right.  But  you  and 
I  can't  get  together.  Why,  you  wouldn't  speak 
to  me  if  I  weren't  dying!" 

"But  you  see  I  can't  go  until  you  tell  me  that 
you  forgive  me!" 

The  woman  on  the  bed  was  silent  from  sheer 
astonishment.  After  a  few  minutes  she  man- 
aged to  speak. 

"Forgive  you?  Are  you  out  of  your  head, 
woman?  Why  I  never  saw  you  in  all  my  life." 

"No,  that's  just  it,"  replied  Mrs.  Morley. 


SHE  DID  NOT  UNDERSTAND        77 

"Dr.  Gilden  tells  me  that  you  were  born  in  this 
part  of  the  city  and  have  lived  here  all  your  life. 
And  he  says  that  everything  has  been  against 
you  from  the  start.  None  of  us  have  found  you 
and  tried  to  help.  I'm  only  one,  of  course,  but 
I  must  bear  my  share  of  blame.  So  I've  come 
to  ask  you  to  forgive  me." 

There  was  a  longer  silence  now,  while  the 
woman  peered  steadily  and  with  a  deep- 
searching  scrutiny  into  Mrs.  Morley's  face. 
The  little  old  lady  had  taken  the  one  chair  in 
the  room,  quite  as  if  in  response  to  a  cordial 
invitation,  and  she  returned  the  woman's  gaze. 
There  was  none  of  the  condescending  pity  of  a 
conscious  superiority  in  her  eyes.  They  were 
just  warm  and  human  and  eager  and  they 
seemed  to  be  asking  a  favor,  to  be  seeking  for 
some  great  gift.  The  sick  woman  breathed  a 
sigh,  which  was  partly  a  groan. 

"I  reckon  it's  pretty  late  for  me  to  hear  that 
sort  of  thing  now,"  she  said,  "but  I  see  you're 
white  and  square.  You  mean  what  you  say. 
You're  all  right.  I'd  take  a  favor  from  a  woman 
like  you,  sure  thing."  She  hesitated  as  her  eyes 
fell  on  the  roses.  "I'll  take  one  of  them  if  you'll 
give  it  to  me." 

Mrs.  Morley  selected  one  particularly  beau- 


78  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

tiful  rose  and  placed  it  in  the  woman's  hand. 
In  a  moment  she  had  put  the  others  in  a  cracked 
glass  she  found  in  a  little  cupboard.  She  put 
the  roses  where  they  were  easily  seen  from  the 
bed. 

Then  she  stood  beside  the  sick  woman  and 
said  with  a  curious  grief-stricken  sternness  in 
her  voice:  "We  have  broken  your  life,  and  I 
don't  wonder  that  you  are  not  wanting  to  have 
us  come  to  see  what  we  have  done."  Not  many 
people  had  heard  Mrs.  Morley  use  a  tone  in 
which  there  was  so  much  bitterness.  The 
woman's  eyes  never  left  her  face.  A  curious 
light  of  satisfaction  had  come  into  her  own. 
It  was  quickly  succeeded  by  one  of  anxiety. 

"Well,  don't  you  mind.  You  didn't  do  it  at 
any  rate.  You'd  have  put  me  in  a  garden  of 
roses,  I  guess.  Say,  I  wish  I'd  known  you 
twelve  years  ago." 

The  little  old  lady  went  on  almost  as  if  she 
had  not  heard  the  interruption. 

"We  build  up  a  big,  prosperous,  successful 
city.  We  grow  a  breed  of  men  strong  in  every- 
thing but  self-control.  And  we  live  our  little 
complacent  lives,  never  putting  forth  a  hand. 
We  are  afraid  to  face  the  facts.  We  worship 
ignorance.  And  all  the  while" — she  came  back 


SHE  DID  NOT  UNDERSTAND        79 

from  thinking  out  loud  to  speaking  to  the 
woman  on  the  bed  again — "all  the  while  girls 
with  shining  eyes  and  merry  faces  and  eager 
hearts,  are  trying  to  find  love  and  loyalty  and 
are  finding" — she  hesitated  and  did  not  com- 
plete the  sentence.  A  fierce  energy  seemed  to 
possess  her.  "I  hate  it." 

A  strange  thing  had  happened  on  the  bed. 

Tears  had  filled  the  eyes  of  the  woman  in 
rags.  She  put  forth  her  hand. 

"Talk  that  way  some  more,"  she  said.  "I 
like  to  hear  it.  When  I  talked  the  worst  I 
wanted  to  say  that  and  didn't  know  how." 

Mrs.  Morley  held  the  sick  woman's  hand 
firmly,  but  was  quite  silent,  a  silence  somehow 
filled  with  a  sympathy  which  drew  the  two 
closer  and  closer  together.  The  woman  on  the 
bed  spoke  again. 

"Do  you  know  I  hate  churches?  They  seem 
like  a  wall  you  can  never  climb  over.  When 
you  came  in  I  thought  maybe  you  came  from  a 
church." 

Then  she  went  on: 

"You  wouldn't  think  it  now,  but  I  was  a 
pretty  enough  girl.  All  keen  on  getting  every- 
thing there  was.  And  pretty  soon  I  found  there 
was  mightly  little  for  me.  Then  there  was  the 


80  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

big  chance  at  last,  I  thought.  He  didn't  play 
fair.  And  I  cared.  And  I  thought  I  was  in  the 
game  for  keeps.  And  after  that  blew  up,  I 
didn't  care  much.  So  it's  gone,  and  I  reckon 
I'd  never  have  talked  about  it  if  you  hadn't 
come  in  here.  It  does  make  it  easier  to  find  one 
woman  you  can  talk  to — one  woman  like  you, 
I  mean." 

The  hand  of  the  little  old  lady  was  gently 
laid  on  her  brow,  and  a  strange  contortion,  half 
smile,  half  sob,  passed  over  the  woman's  face. 

"Why,  this  is  like  having  a  friend,"  she  said. 
She  lay  thinking  quietly  as  if  trying  to  solve 
some  riddle.  Then  she  said:  "But  why  do  you 
do  it?  Why  are  you  like  this?"  Her  eyes  were 
fastened  on  Mrs.  Morley's  face. 

The  little  old  lady  spoke  quietly. 

"I  have  a  Friend  who  loves  the  people  who 
haven't  had  a  fair  chance,  and  breaks  his  heart 
over  them  when  they  suffer  and  go  wrong." 

"I'd  like  to  know  him,"  said  the  woman 
on  the  bed.  "I'd  like  to  see  a  man  like  that." 

"He   died    a   good    while    ago,"    said    Mrs. 
Morley.     "But  he  isn't  dead  after  all,  and — 
she  hesitated,  but  with  a  quality  of  courage 
characteristic    of    her,    she    continued,    "They 
were  singing  about  him  in  church  this  morning." 


SHE  DID  NOT  UNDERSTAND        81 

"O,  you  mean  religion,"  said  the  woman, 
disappointedly.  "I've  known  some  religious 
people" — this  in  a  hard  sardonic  tone.  "But 
did  religion  make  you  feel  the  way  you  do? 
If  it  did  there's  something  about  it  I've  never 
caught  on  to." 

The  little  old  lady  held  a  glass  of  water 
to  the  lips  of  the  sick  woman,  as  if  anticipating 
her  desire.  Then  she  sat  down  again  and 
began  to  talk.  It  was  the  Master  as  she  had 
known  him  in  a  whole  life's  vicissitudes  of 
whom  she  spoke.  All  her  power  of  vivid 
understanding  description  was  brought  to  bear 
on  making  it  all  real  to  the  woman  beside 
her. 

The  figure  on  the  bed  lay  quite  still.  At 
first  there  was  a  tolerant  but  incredulous 
look  on  her  face.  She  liked  this  woman  and 
she  would  listen  to  anything  she  had  to  say. 
But  incredulity  was  replaced  by  interest. 
Interest  became  more  intense.  She  seemed 
looking  over  the  shoulder  of  the  woman  at  the 
well  as  she  talked  with  Jesus.  She  felt  all 
the  passion  of  his  purity.  She  felt  all  the 
tenderness  of  his  love.  With  a  power  to  make 
it  real  in  a  simple  human  way  the  little  old 
lady  lifted  the  curtain  on  the  scene  where 


82  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

Jesus  wrote  on  the  ground.  She  brought  the 
sick  woman  into  the  presence  of  the  one  who 
washed  the  feet  of  Jesus  and  wiped  them 
with  her  hair.  Then  in  a  voice  very  low  but 
very  distinct  she  spoke  of  the  cross,  and  in 
her  words  there  was  a  deep  and  rich  gladness 
even  as  there  was  heartbreak.  The  cross 
seemed  an  open  door  of  hope  to  every  Mag- 
dalene 

The  woman  on  the  bed  was  weeping  quietly. 

"Why,  I  never  understood,"  she  murmured, 
and  she  kept  repeating,  "I  never  understood." 

The  little  old  lady  was  not  done  yet.  Now 
she  spoke  of  Easter  morning,  of  the  women 
who  met  the  One  who  was  stronger  than 
death,  of  his  shining  victory  and  far-flung 
power.  All  the  passion  of  her  own  faith,  which 
had  come  forth  gladly  triumphant  through 
many  ways  of  tears  and  bitter  struggle,  was  in 
her  words. 

The  sick  woman  seemed  looking  far  be- 
yond the  room. 

"Why,  it's  too  good  to  be  true,"  she  mur- 
mured, strangely  enough  in  a  tone  of  acceptance 
rather  than  one  of  rejection.  Then  she  had 
her  moment  of  leaping  faith.  Her  eyes  were 
full  of  a  great  luster  as  she  said: 


SHE  DID  NOT  UNDERSTAND        83 

"Why!  He's  come  right  here  from  the 
cross  to  take  away  my  twelve  bad  years." 

The  afternoon  wore  into  the  evening.  There 
was  stillness  in  the  shabby  room.  But  it 
was  forlorn  no  longer.  When  late  that  evening 
Mrs.  Morley's  friends  came  for  her,  they 
found  her  sitting  quietly  beside  a  still  form, 
with  a  face  which  in  the  moonlight  seemed 
shining  with  God's  gift  of  peace.  The  woman's 
fingers  held  tightly  a  great  red  rose. 


vni 

BLEED  AWHILE;  THEN  FIGHT  AGAIN 


big  blue  limousine  turned  about  swiftly 
J.  and  came  up  the  driveway  and  into 
the  porte-cochere.  A  well-built  athletic  figure, 
with  an  appearance  of  easy  distinction  and 
a  stride  which  suggested  command  of  himself 
and  of  others,  moved  swiftly  across  the  piazza. 
The  butler  appeared  almost  at  once  in  response 
to  the  ringing  of  the  bell,  and  just  behind  him 
stood  Mrs.  Morley  with  outstretched  hands. 
Her  eyes  were  shining  with  welcome  as  she 
said: 

"Come  in,  Charley.  Do  you  know  I  was 
just  thinking  of  you.  I  was  reading  an  account 
of  William  T.  Harris's  application  of  Hegel's 
philosophy  to  American  life  and  I  fell  to  won- 
dering what  you  would  think  of  it." 

She  led  the  way  to  the  library  and  pointed 
to  the  chair  where  an  eager  young  man  had 
often  sat  while  he  poured  out  the  story  of 
his  hopes  and  dreams,  his  ideas  and  ideals. 

All    this   was   long   before   he   became   the 

84 


BLEED  AWHILE  85 

governor  of  the  State,  but  she  greeted  him 
in  the  old  way.  There  had  always  been  a 
mental  tussle  the  moment  Charles  Bowman 
appeared,  and  with  her  usual  skill  she  began 
just  where  they  had  left  off  long  before.  She 
knew  how  many  people  had  ceased  to  touch 
the  life  of  the  man  and  could  only  think  of 
the  governor. 

Charles  Bowman  leaned  back  comfortably. 
His  eyes  moved  about  the  room  drinking  in 
all  the  old  familiar  sights.  Then  they  rested 
on  the  little  old  lady,  a  delicate  pink  in  her 
cheek,  her  whole  bearing  alive  with  interest 
in  him  and  the  talk  they  were  going  to  have. 

No  one  appreciated  Charles  Bowman's  gift 
of  charm,  or  the  quick  power  of  his  speech, 
at  times  like  the  crack  of  a  rifle,  more  than 
she.  Now  there  was  a  wealth  of  tribute  in 
the  way  in  which  he  sat  looking  at  her. 

"You  are  just  the  same,  I  see,"  he  began, 
"you  little  lady  of  perpetual  youth.  That's 
why  I  came.  I  wanted  to  find  somebody 
who  is  young."  There  was  a  lurking  serious- 
ness under  his  light  tone,  which  Mrs.  Morley 
was  quick  to  perceive,  though  she  made  no 
sign. 

The   governor   picked   up   the   book   which 


86  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

was  lying  open  on  the  table.  "So  you're 
going  in  for  Hegel  as  diluted  by  William  T. 
Harris.  I  thought  it  would  be  Bergson,  or 
Eucken." 

Mrs.  Morley  smiled  with  a  certain  gay 
mischief  in  her  eye. 

"Do  you  know,  I  like  Bergson's  illustra- 
tions so  well  that  I  forget  his  thought,  and 
I  like  Eucken's  feelings  about  life  so  well  that 
I  forget  his  ideas.  So  I'm  going  away  from 
danger  by  reading  after  a  man  who  is  a  thinker 
with  no  secrets  of  verbal  magic,  and  no  wells 
of  intuition  so  deep  that  you  forget  everything 
else  in  their  contemplation." 

Charles  Bowman  was  looking  very  stead- 
ily at  the  little  old  lady.  He  knew  her  tac- 
tics well,  and  more  than  most  of  her  friends 
he  could  tell  what  she  was  about.  It  came 
to  him  now  that  she  was  deliberately  test- 
ing his  interests  in  fields  away  from  politics 
to  see  if  he  had  kept  his  mind  alive,  and  to 
see  all  sorts  of  other  things  which  would  be- 
come evident  if  he  talked  about  these  matters. 
He  had  said  long  ago,  "Mrs.  Morley  gets 
you  talking  on  one  subject  and  then  listens 
to  what  you  don't  say  on  another."  At  the 
time  it  was  regarded  as  a  particularly  pen- 


BLEED  AWHILE  87 

etrating  description  of  one  of  the  methods 
of  the  little  old  lady. 

Still  holding  the  book  in  his  hand,  the  gov- 
ernor said,  musingly,  "To  take  the  thesis  and 
the  antithesis  and  to  combine  them  hi  a  larger 
synthesis  was  a  marvelous  formula  to  Hegel 
and  his  followers,  wasn't  it?  All  unconsciously 
it's  the  politician's  formula.  And  it  works. 
But  sometimes  you  have  to  pay  cash  down." 

There  was  a  grim  irony  in  the  last  words, 
and  he  waited  for  Mrs.  Morley  to  reply.  She 
was  a  master  of  effective  silences,  and  she 
simply  sat  waiting. 

Charles  Bowman's  finely  chiseled  face  had 
hard  lines  upon  it  as  he  looked  toward  her. 
At  length  he  burst  out  with  his  old  boyish 
impetuosity:  "Mrs.  Morley,  we  haven't  had  a 
talk  for  a  long  time.  But,  of  course,  you  know 
all  about  my  career  in  this  State.  I  learned 
my  trade.  I  mastered  it.  I  found  the  way 
to  make  everything  count.  I  capitalized  all 
my  energy  and  brains  and  everything  else 
there  was  of  me.  But  it  was  fair,  clean  work. 
I  have  been  after  a  better  State,  and  I've  never 
gotten  in  the  way  of  my  ideals  of  what  the 
State  ought  to  be — not  if  I  knew  it." 

Mrs.  Morley's  hand  moved  with  an  eager 


88  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

gesture  of  assent.  "I've  known  all  about  it,'* 
she  said,  "and  I  could  put  it  far  more  strongly. 
It's  been  a  great  fight.  A  new  spirit  is  in 
the  State  because  of  the  way  in  which  you 
have  lived  and  worked."  She  seemed  to  gather 
energy  in  an  individual  way  she  had  when  she 
wanted  to  make  a  sentence  a  personal  gift, 
and  then  she  said,  "I've  been  proud — very 
proud — to  watch  it  all." 

She  gave  such  words  so  carefully,  and  with 
such  a  sense  of  responsibility  in  uttering  them, 
that  they  always  meant  much  to  her  friends. 
Charles  Bowman's  eyes  gleamed  with  some 
deep  response  of  gratitude. 

"That  pays  in  full  for  some  very  bad  hours," 
he  said. 

In  a  moment  the  hard,  troubled  look  came 
into  his  face  again. 

"They've  got  me  fastened  up  so  tightly 
that  I  can't  move  now,  Mrs.  Morley.  I  can 
see  through  the  whole  thing.  But  I  can't  do 
anything  about  it.  They've  paid  a  price 
I  won't  pay,  and  the  State  is  theirs." 

Mrs.  Morley  sat  listening  now  with  an 
intent  sympathy  which  made  it  very  easy 
to  talk.  Governor  Bowman  went  on: 

"You  know   the  group    of  men  who  have 


BLEED  AWHILE  89 

been  in  control  in  this  State  so  long.  They 
are  as  able  and  as  crooked  a  group  as  any 
commonwealth  in  the  country  had  known 
for  many  a  year.  Really,  they  have  been 
playing  with  me.  They  assented  to  my  elec- 
tion in  order  to  make  a  pretense  of  reform 
and  go  on  with  their  own  plans  all  the  while. 
Well,  they  haven't  found  me  the  figurehead 
they  expected.  There's  been  some  good  fight- 
ing, and  I've  won  some  victories,  but  for 
all  that  I've  not  seriously  interfered  with  their 
deepest  plans.  I  haven't  been  able  to  touch 
them  at  the  places  where  they  care  most. 
Now  they  plan  to  reelect  me — to  seem  to  ac- 
cept my  leadership — and  then  to  go  on  in  a 
more  subtly  effective  way  to  debauch  the 
State." 

He  sat  still  after  he  had  spoken  these  words. 

Then  he  said  with  hard  emphasis:  "I  can't 
do  what  I  want  to  do.  I  won't  be  a  tool.  So 
I'm  not  going  to  be  a  candidate." 

Mrs.  Morley  took  this  announcement  with- 
out so  much  as  a  gesture  or  a  movement  of 
an  eye.  If  Governor  Bowman  looked  for 
an  exclamation  of  deprecation  and  disappoint- 
ment, it  did  not  come.  The  little  old  lady 
filled  the  silence  with  a  quality  of  expectancy 


90  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

seeming  to  ask  for  more,  seeming  to  suggest 
that,  of  course,  he  had  more  important  reasons 
for  his  decision. 

"That's  all  there  is,"  he  cried,  "and  isn't 
that  enough?  I  can't  allow  myself  to  be 
the  mere  instrument  of  that  gang.  I  can't 
let  them  use  me  as  an  anaesthetic  to  put  the 
public  to  sleep  while  they  bleed  the  State." 

Mrs.  Morley  rose  and  walked  across  the 
room.  She  carefully  drew  a  book  from  one 
of  the  cases,  turned  to  a  certain  page  and 
handed  the  book  to  Charles  Bowman,  point- 
ing to  a  marked  passage.  His  eyes  followed 
her  finger  and  he  read  from  what  he  recog- 
nized at  once  as  an  old  English  ballad: 

I'll  lie  down  and  bleed  a  while, 
And  then  I'll  rise  and  fight  again. 

He  looked  up  at  Mrs.  Morley.  There  was  fire 
in  her  eyes.  A  sudden  gleam  came  into  his  own. 

"Do  you  know,  I  believe  you  would,"  he 
said,  admiringly. 

"And  I  know  that  you  must,"  she  flashed 
back  immediately. 

She  sat  down  opposite  him.  There  was 
a  kind  of  poise  to  her  body  which  suggested 
a  soldier  ready  for  a  battle.  He  waited  ex- 


BLEED  AWHILE  91 

pectantly  to  hear  what  she  would  say.  Her 
first  word  almost  brought  him  to  his  feet. 

"Of  course  you  know,  Charley,  that  you 
haven't  begun  to  fight —  He  started  to  in- 
terrupt her,  but  a  gesture  of  command  held  him 
back.  "I  know  all  the  things  you  would  say. 
I've  followed  your  career  intimately.  I  could 
tell  you  the  very  months  of  strain  which  have 
worn  your  body.  I  could  tell  you  the  hours 
which  have  been  almost  a  torture.  It  has  all 
been  fine  and  brave.  From  many  a  man  it 
would  be  superb,  but  it  isn't  from  you." 

She  sat  for  a  moment  scrutinizing  him,  as  if 
to  see  if  she  dared  to  say  all  that  was  in  her 
mind. 

"Go  on,"  he  said  with  a  half-ironic  gesture; 
"do  your  worst." 

She  rose  and  stood  before  him.  She  knew 
it  would  not  be  easy  to  move  him.  She  felt 
that  it  was  a  critical  moment. 

"I  know  you,  Charles  Bowman,"  she  said, 
"and  I  know  that  you've  never  put  one  third  of 
your  full  power  into  this  battle.  You've  meas- 
ured yourself  by  other  men,  and  not  by  your 
own  capacity.  If  you  ever  use  all  your  power, 
you  can  master  this  State.  You  can  overwhelm 
completely  the  corrupt  forces.  You  can  shake 


92  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

the  very  foundations  on  which  the  worst  things 
rest,  and  bring  them  down.  Under  your  leader- 
ship the  people  can  remake  the  State." 

Once  again  he  would  have  spoken.  Again 
she  moved  imperiously  on:  "You  have  the  ear 
of  the  State  in  a  completer  way  than  you  know. 
You  have  capacities  for  organization  you  have 
never  used.  There  are  deep,  unsounded  re- 
sources of  power  in  your  life.  Are  you  going  to 
desert  the  State?  Are  you  going  to  be  a 
quitter?" 

The  last  word,  so  utterly  unexpected  from 
this  little  lady  of  rare  and  delicate  culture, 
came  like  an  explosion. 

The  governor  rose  and  began  walking  back 
and  forth  in  the  room.  There  was  another 
hour  of  talk.  It  was  a  battle  royal,  and  some- 
times it  seemed  doubtful  as  to  which  way  the 
victory  would  lie.  With  amazing  strategy  and 
alertness  Mrs.  Morley  pressed  every  advantage. 
The  whole  impact  of  her  power  of  brain  and 
personality  was  put  into  the  struggle. 

When  at  length  Charles  Bowman  stepped 
into  the  limousine  he  called  back  to  the  little 
old  lady: 

"Your  Hegelian  dialect  is  too  much  for  me. 
So  I'll  rise  and  fight  some  more." 


IX 

WHEN  SKIES  WERE  GRAY 

THE  sun  was  shining  brightly.  There  was 
an  enticing  fragrance  of  flowers  in  the 
air.  June  was  doing  its  best  to  live  up  to 
James  Russell  Lowell's  praise.  The  world 
seemed  thrilling  with  beautiful  secrets  it  was 
ready  to  tell  anybody  who  would  come  away  and 
listen.  A  bird  was  singing  a  song  sweet  enough 
to  express  the  rapture  of  a  whole  happy  city. 

Mrs.  Morley  walked  wearily  toward  the  win- 
dow. Her  eyes  were  heavy  and  her  heart  was 
heavier.  There  was  a  sort  of  pallor  on  her  face 
which  accentuated  her  age. 

The  sprightly,  brilliant,  vivacious  woman 
about  whom  her  friends  clustered  in  admiration 
seemed  to  have  vanished,  and  there  was  left 
behind  a  wan  shadow  of  a  woman,  without  vital 
energy,  and  with  only  a  great  emptiness  in  her 
eyes. 

The  last  ten  days  had  made  a  demand  upon 
her  strength  and  sympathy  which  it  would  have 
been  difficult  for  anyone  to  meet,  and  this 
fragile  woman  had  drawn  too  heavily  upon  the 

93 


94  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

bank  of  her  vitality.  The  inevitable  reaction 
had  come  and  she  had  slipped  off  to  her  little 
cottage  in  the  country  to  meet  it  alone. 

Now  she  stood  watching  the  bird  making 
such  mad  melody  on  the  branch  of  a  tree  out- 
side. She  caught  herself  wondering  how  it 
could  possibly  sing.  Then  she  shook  her  head 
gravely  as  she  said  to  herself:  "This  is  going  to 
be  a  bad  battle.  If  only  one  could  meet  a  day 
like  this  by  itself.  The  trouble  is  they  attach 
all  the  other  bad  days  of  one's  life  to  them,  and 
what  a  dull,  doleful,  dismal  train  of  days  goes 
crawling  down  the  track!" 

The  bird  on  the  outside  had  reached  a  mar- 
velous crescendo  of  final  jubilation.  There 
seemed  something  almost  malignant  in  the  way 
in  which  he  flaunted  his  joy  in  the  little  old 
lady's  face.  She  turned  away  and  sat  dully  in 
a  chair  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  For  a  while 
she  was  perfectly  quiet.  Then  she  rose  abruptly. 

"This  will  never  do,"  she  said.  "It  seems  as 
if  every  ugly  experience  I've  ever  had  is  ready 
to  come  and  leer  at  me  out  of  the  past."  Hastily 
adjusting  a  hat  and  a  light  wrap,  she  walked 
out  into  the  country  road.  She  felt  like  a  slave 
pursued  by  hounds  baying  on  her  track.  Old 
sorrows,  old  disappointments,  old  disillusion- 


WHEN  SKIES  WERE  GRAY          95 

ments  came  madly  after  her.  Weary  of  body, 
tired  in  brain,  devitalized  by  too  much  effort, 
she  seemed  powerless  to  resist. 

Then  from  all  the  other  figures  of  melancholy 
one  emerged  and  became  dominant  in  her 
thought.  Every  life  has  some  deepest  pang, 
far  more  poignant  than  all  others.  In  the  most 
helpless  hour  it  makes  itself  felt  with  com- 
pletest  power.  With  a  sort  of  brutal  strength 
the  sorrow  within  all  sorrows  came  swinging 
into  the  little  old  lady's  mind,  with  all  its  cruel, 
remorseless  egotism  possessing  her  soul. 

There  was  a  look  in  her  face  now  which  no 
friend  had  ever  been  allowed  to  see  there.  A 
deep  inarticulate  misery  looked  out  from  her 
eyes.  W7ith  all  the  wonder  of  the  summer  about 
her,  the  sky  of  her  own  life  was  completely  over- 
cast. A  gray  mist  had  settled  upon  her  soul. 

With  a  certain  bitter  accent  she  found  her- 
self quoting  the  lines  of  Alfred  Noyes: 

"Mist  in  the  valley,  mist  no  less 

Within  my  groping  mind! 
The  stile  swam  out:  a  wilderness 

Rolled  round  it,  gray  and  blind. 
A  yard  in  front,  a  yard  behind, 

So  strait  my  world  was  grown, 
I  stooped  to  win  once  more  some  kind 

Glimmer  of  twig  or  stone. 


96  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

"A  universe  of  lifeless  gray 

Oppressed  me  overhead. 
Below,  a  yard  of  clinging  clay 

With  rotting  foliage  red 
Glimmered.     The  stillness  of  the  dead. 

Hark! — was  it  broken  now 
By  the  slow  drip  of  tears  that  bled 

From  hidden  heart  or  bough. 

"Mist  in  the  valley,  mist  no  less 

That  muffled  every  cry 
Across  the  soul's  gray  wilderness 

Where  faith  lay  down  to  die; 
Buried  beyond  all  hope  was  I, 

Hope  had  no  meaning  there: 
A  yard  above  my  head  the  sky 

Could  only  mock  at  prayer." 

The  little  old  lady  stood  quite  still. 

"No,"  she  said,  decidedly,  "I  won't  stop  with 
that.  I'll  go  on  to  the  great  hope."  With  set 
determination  she  repeated  the  other  lines 
swelling  with  the  wonder  "of  wheeling  suns 
and  stars"  and  "the  gleaming  city"  with  all 
its  gift  of  strength.  She  said  the  words,  but 
her  soul  remained  unkindled.  The  sorrow 
within  the  sorrow  was  gnawing  away  at  her 
heart. 

Some  distance  ahead  the  little  white  country 
church  appeared  as  she  followed  a  turn  in  the 
road.  With  quick  decision  she  bent  her  steps 


WHEN  SKIES  WERE  GRAY          97 

toward  that  white  symbol  of  the  presence  of 
the  helping  God. 

"I  can't  find  God  in  my  heart  this  morning," 
she  was  saying,  piteously.  "Perhaps  I'll  find 
him  there." 

In  a  few  minutes  she  was  seated  among  the 
folk  of  that  rural  community,  a  little  company 
of  them  gathered  for  the  Sunday  morning 
worship. 

The  organ  creaked  sadly.  The  singing  was 
poor  enough  that  day.  There  was  no  delicate 
beauty  of  music,  or  noble  quality  of  ritual  to 
come  like  a  balm  to  a  tired  and  tortured  heart. 

A  very  young  man  was  in  the  pulpit.  He 
was  obviously  nervous.  Once  the  hymnal  fell 
from  his  hand.  When  he  came  to  pray,  how- 
ever, there  was  a  genuineness  about  the  words 
he  sent  forth  on  the  quest  for  the  ear  of  God 
which  set  something  fluttering  in  the  little  old 
lady's  heart. 

Then  there  came  the  sermon.  It  wasn't 
exactly  a  sermon.  It  was  a  very  boyish  piece 
of  work  as  far  as  structure  and  arrangement 
were  concerned.  Mrs.  Morley  never  noticed 
that.  What  she  did  notice  was  that  soon  the 
young  man  forgot  his  nervousness.  He  lost 
himself  because  he  found  the  thought  of  his 


98  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

message  all  engrossing.  His  words  were  alive. 
It  was  not  mental  power.  It  was  moral  power, 
and  it  was  spiritual  power.  He  was  a  vigorous 
young  chap,  and  as  he  talked  you  knew  that 
he  had  known  the  battle  in  the  wilderness  with 
wild  beasts.  He  had  been  torn  with  conflicting 
desires,  and  in  his  darkest  hour,  the  strong, 
pure  Christ  had  come  to  him  with  the  secret  of 
triumph.  The  wonder  of  it  all  gleamed  in  his 
eyes.  It  gave  a  telling  power  to  his  gestures.  It 
rang  in  his  tones.  The  little  church  was  trans- 
figured to  him  because  within  its  walls  were 
men  and  women  to  whom  all  life  could  be  made 
over  by  the  secret  which  was  singing  itself  so 
gloriously  in  his  own  heart. 

Somewhere  along  in  the  sermon  that  supreme 
thing  happened  which  is  the  highest  reward  of 
true  preaching.  The  preacher's  form  disap- 
peared from  the  soul's  vision — and  that  other 
form  of  the  Great  Healer  and  Helper  stood 
before  the  people  with  outstretched,  welcoming 
arms. 

The  little  old  lady  closed  her  eyes  suddenly, 
while  hot  tears  moved  down  her  cheeks.  Very 
softly  she  was  saying  to  herself,  "I  come,  I 
come,"  using  the  words  of  the  old  hymn  which 
has  carried  so  many  toward  the  waiting  Christ. 


WHEN  SKIES  WERE  GRAY          99 

And  then  the  ever  old,  ever  new  miracle  was 
wrought.  That  spiritual  sacrament  within  the 
soul  was  made  real.  And  the  sorrow  within  the 
sorrow  was  all  changed  as  the  light  of  God  fell 
upon  it.  Where  there  had  been  restlessness 
there  was  peace.  Where  there  had  been  rebel- 
lion there  was  the  joyous  quiet  of  a  great  sub- 
mission. And  green  pastures  and  still  waters 
were  all  about  in  the  midst  of  the  summer  day. 
"I  think  I'll  go  where  the  birds  are  singing 
now,"  said  the  little  old  lady  to  herself  as  she 
walked  away  from  the  church.  "I  know  why 
they  sing." 

When  Mrs.  Morley  went  back  to  the  city  in 
a  few  days,  her  friends  met  the  usual  under- 
standing vital  woman  on  whom  they  had  de- 
pended so  long. 

"You  are  always  joyously  alive,"  said  one  of 
them,  enviously. 

The  little  old  lady  only  smiled  a  gentle 
serious  smile. 


X 

BURNING  BUT  NOT  CONSUMED 

HOW  do  you  do  it?"  asked  Colonel 
Arnold.  There  was  amusement.  There 
was  cynicism.  There  was  admiration  in  his 
voice.  He  was  sitting  beside  Mrs.  Morley 
at  dinner,  and  his  finely  chiseled  face,  his 
carefully  trimmed  gray  mustache,  and  his 
clean-cut  military  figure  made  him  a  person 
sure  to  attract  one's  eye  and  then  to  hold  it. 
Colonel  Arnold  had  been  living  in  Europe 
for  a  dozen  years.  He  had  the  easy  and  as- 
sured bearing  of  a  man  who  had  mingled 
with  people  of  significance  in  many  lands. 
A  good  many  years  before  the  night  of  which 
we  are  writing  a  friend  had  stopped  admiringly 
before  him,  at  a  brilliant  function  in  a  certain 
European  capital.  He  looked  at  the  fine, 
soldierly  form,  he  observed  every  detail  of 
the  perfectly  groomed  figure  before  him,  and 
then  he  said,  "Colonel  Arnold,  I  believe  you 
were  born  in  an  evening  suit." 

There  was  only  one  thing  which   was  dis- 
100 


BURNING  BUT  NOT  CONSUMED    101 

appointing  about  this  well-made  gentleman 
to  the  acute  observer.  You  did  not  feel  sat- 
isfied with  his  eyes.  They  were  keen  and 
clear  and  cold.  They  could  flash  with  amazing 
flame.  They  could  hold  you  with  hard  and 
powerful  and  unescapable  scrutiny,  but  they 
had  no  deep  wells  of  peace  in  them,  and 
there  were  no  fountains  of  dreams  playing 
in  their  far  depths.  Matthew  Arnold  could 
not  have  written  of  him,  "The  soul  still  looked 
out  of  his  eyes." 

To-night  the  colonel  was  busy  picking  up 
the  threads  of  an  old  friendship.  He  had 
known  Mrs.  Morley  very  well  indeed  dim 
long  years  ago.  She  could  always  bring  a 
thrill  then.  He  was  surprised  to  find  that 
blase  and  world  weary  as  he  was  she  could 
bring  a  thrill  still. 

He  was  talking  now,  not  waiting  for  her 
to  answer  his  question,  or,  rather,  explain- 
ing the  question  before  he  allowed  her  to 
answer  it. 

"I'm  not  surprised  at  your  brilliancy,"  he 
said.  "I  knew  that  had  grown  with  the  years. 
One  night  in  Paris  after  an  hour  with  a  woman 
whose  words  flashed  like  diamonds  and  whose 
personality  glowed  with  majestic  power,  I 


102  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

walked  away  with  Senator  Paxton.  You  met 
him  in  Washington  a  decade  ago.  He  was 
praising  the  rare  and  radiant  woman  with 
whom  we  had  been  talking.  'But  then,'  he 
said,  suddenly,  *you  ought  to  see  Mrs.  Morley 
and  you  ought  to  hear  her.  She  doesn't  need 
Paris  for  a  background.  She  would  turn  a 
log  cabin  into  a  salon.'  So  it  has  happened 
again  and  again.  People  turned  up  in  London 
and  in  Rome  who  knew  you,  and  it  was  always 
the  same  story." 

Colonel  Arnold  paused  a  moment.  The 
little  old  lady  had  a  curious  secret  of  listen- 
ing to  such  things — and  she  had  found  it 
necessary  to  listen  to  a  good  many  of  them 
in  her  lifetime — as  if  they  were  approaches 
to  something  more  important  and  less  per- 
sonal which  she  wanted  very  much  to  hear. 
"She  is  one  of  the  few  women  who  can  listen 
to  a  compliment  with  perfect  good  taste,"  a 
friend  once  said  of  her.  Colonel  Arnold  quietly 
gazed  at  Mrs.  Morley  with  an  odd  sense  of 
how  completely  satisfying  she  was.  Then  he 
went  on.  "Do  you  know,  I  was  almost  afraid 
to  see  you.  I  am  always  discovering  the 
flaw  in  vases  other  people  admire.  But  this 
time  the  vase  has  gone  beyond  expectations. 


BURNING  BUT  NOT  CONSUMED    103 

And  it  isn't  the  vase  which  surprises  me. 
K^s  the  flowers  growing  in  it,  and  the  fra- 
grance." He  leaned  toward  Mrs.  Morley 
with  an  engaging  grace. 

"Dear  little  lady,"  he  cried,  "flowers  be- 
long to  the  springtime.  You  and  I  belong 
to  the  autumn.  I  have  no  flowers  in  my  garden 
any  longer.  How  do  you  keep  them  bloom- 
ing in  yours?" 

Under  all  his  well-bred  gallantry  there 
was  something  real,  something  restless  and 
eager,  something  which  he  wanted  to  know. 

Just  at  this  moment  the  hostess  gave  the 
signal.  The  dinner  was  over  and  the  guests 
arose. 

Colonel  Arnold  bent  toward  Mrs.  Morley. 
"I  want  to  talk,"  he  said,  imperiously,  al- 
most like  a  boy.  "Come  with  me  into  the 
garden  where  the  other  flowers  are." 

"If  you  have  no  flowers  in  your  garden, 
you  know  how  to  turn  words  into  flowers," 
the  little  old  lady  flashed  at  him.  Then  with 
gay  mischief  in  her  eyes,  "But  I  suppose  a 
great  traveler  like  you  doesn't  need  new  flowers 
always.  Clever  phrases  will  bloom  over  again 
just  as  often  as  you  wish." 

Colonel  Arnold   chuckled.      "It's  new   wine 


104  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

in  new  wineskins  to-night.  It's  fresh  from 
Olympus  and  only  the  gods  have  touched 
it  before." 

They  were  out  in  the  garden  now  with 
the  quiet  night  beauty  all  around  them.  Mrs. 
Morley  had  thrown  a  cloak  of  some  soft  and 
exquisite  material  about  her.  She  looked  up 
at  Colonel  Arnold  with  a  keen  friendly  scrutiny 
in  her  eye.  Then  she  spoke. 

"Prometheus,  you  remember,  stole  fire  from 
heaven.  You  have  only  stolen  wine.  Per- 
haps that's  why  your  interest  lags  before 
the  end  of  the  play." 

The  man  beside  the  little  old  lady  made 
a  quick  gesture.  Then  he  waited  as  if  he 
expected  her  to  say  more.  Mrs.  Morley's 
silences  were  always  full  of  meaning.  She 
allowed  this  one  to  become  very  pregnant 
before  she  went  on: 

"Do  you  remember  Mrs.  Browning's  song 
about  the  great  god  Pan  and  the  reeds  by 
the  river?  If  the  reeds  are  people,  you  have 
to  be  careful.  When  a  man  plays  at  being 
the  great  god  Pan  the  music  has  a  way  of 
leaving  his  soul  after  he  has  destroyed  a  good 
many  reeds  by  the  river." 

Colonel  Arnold  seemed  to  stiffen  for  a  mo- 


BURNING  BUT  NOT  CONSUMED    105 

ment.  Then  with  his  world-seasoned  gift 
he  quickly  accepted  his  companion's  mood. 

"And  was  it  to  be  a  supplement  to  Eliza- 
beth Barrett's  great  god  Pan  that  Robert 
Browning  wrote  the  poem  with  the  phrase, 
'It*s  an  awkward  thing  to  play  with  souls'?" 
he  asked. 

"You  know  all  the  phrases,"  said  Mrs. 
Morley  quickly.  "What  a  pity  that  words 
have  holes  in  them  and  let  the  meaning  slip 
through  them  and  escape!" 

The  easy  urbanity  of  Colonel  Arnold  slipped 
from  him  now.  He  bent  over  Mrs.  Morley 
with  a  new  seriousness  in  his  voice. 

"Do  you  think  so  badly  of  me  as  that?" 
he  asked. 

The  moon  was  shining  into  Mrs.  Morley's 
face.  Her  statuesque  beauty  and  the  fine 
lines  of  her  features  were  singularly  impressive 
in  that  garden  full  of  mysterious  shadows 
and  silences  and  the  fragrance  of  rare  flowers. 
She  stood  looking  into  her  companion's  eyes 
and  somehow  as  she  stood  the  years  seemed 
to  slip  from  her. 

"By  Jove,"  cried  the  colonel,  "if  you  and 
I  were  thirty  years  younger,  I  know  one  flower 
I'd  try  to  have  in  my  garden." 


106  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

Mrs.  Morley  was  still  looking  at  him  with 
quiet  intentness. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "but  you  wouldn't  be 
contented  with  less  than  a  collection." 

He  winced  a  little  at  that. 

Something  still  and  cold  seemed  to  come 
into  Mrs.  Morley 's  face. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "if  Cleopatra 
had  been  a  man  I  think  she  would  have  been 
like  you." 

The  man  at  her  side  had  an  angry  light 
in  his  eyes.  He  steadied  his  voice,  however, 
as  he  answered: 

"Your  surgery  is  rather  remorseless,  isn't 
it?  When  one  touches  this  rose  one  must 
watch  for  the  sharp  thorns." 

He  knew  that  he  was  unfair  and  that  he 
had  betrayed  his  anger. 

Mrs.  Morley  touched  his  arm  quietly. 
There  was  a  wealth  of  warm  friendliness  in 
her  voice  now: 

"One  must  care  a  great  deal  in  order  to  have 
the  right  to  wound.  And  I  do  care  a  great  deal 
for  the  man  you  lost  somewhere  in  the  heat  of 
life.  Won't  you  help  me  to  find  him?" 

Colonel  Arnold  lifted  his  head  with  a  sudden 
imperious  friendliness. 


BURNING  BUT  NOT  CONSUMED    107 

"Tell  me  about  yourself.  Perhaps  if  I 
understand  why  you  please  me  so  much  I 
will  understand  why  I  please  you  so  little." 

Mrs.  Morley's  silence  had  something  eva- 
sive and  impalpable  in  it.  Her  companion 
led  her  into  a  little  summer  house  and  when 
they  were  seated  comfortably  he  spoke.  "It 
isn't  hard  for  me  to  see,  old  friend,  that  you've 
kept  life's  fires  burning  brightly.  The  won- 
der still  gleams  in  your  eyes  and  warmth  is 
all  about  you.  Once  again  I  ask,  How  have 
you  done  it?  I  am  old  and  the  fires  have 
gone  out.  I  know  how  to  play  the  game  of 
make-believe.  But  really  it's  winter  and 
there's  no  place  where  the  hearth  fires 
glow." 

It  seemed  a  long  while  that  they  were  silent. 
It  was  a  time  full  of  memories  and  all  the  subtle 
undertones  of  thought.  Mrs.  Morley  looked 
up  at  last. 

"It's  queer  that  books  are  alive,  isn't  it?" 
she  asked. 

The  colonel  knew  her  well  enough  to  be 
patient  while  she  guided  him  on  the  trail 
of  her  thought. 

"You  mean?"  he  questioned. 

"That  dead  people  live  in  so  many  books 


108  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

and  that  one  book  has  enough  life  in  it  to 
raise  the  dead." 

She  turned  to  him  impulsively  now,  with 
an  almost  girlish  energy. 

"I'm  going  to  tell  you.  One  book  gave 
me  the  secret.  Or,  rather,  one  person  in  one 
book.  I  didn't  know  before  that  you  could 
have  fire  without  having  conflagration.  Then 
I  learned  that  a  life  as  well  as  a  bush  may 
be  burning  without  being  consumed." 

"I'm  afraid  this  is  a  bit  too  mystical  for 
me,"  replied  the  colonel. 

"No,  no,  you  are  just  the  man  who  can 
understand.  You  thought  you'd  lose  the 
fire  of  life  unless  you  lived  the  life  you've 
lived.  And  if  you'd  known  it  one  big  vital 
book  would  have  told  you  how  to  have  per- 
petual fire  and  never  a  conflagration.  You 
didn't  need  to  burn  up  so  many  things — and 
then  be  cold  at  last." 

A  deep  frown  was  on  the  colonel's  face. 
"Then  tell  me,"  he  flashed  out  suddenly, 
"why  good  people  are  so  commonplace."  Mrs. 
Morley  laughed  at  that. 

"O,  they're  not,"  she  said.  "At  least  not 
because  they're  good.  You  would  never  have 
been  commonplace  even  had  you  chosen  to 


BURNING  BUT  NOT  CONSUMED    109 

be  on  the  side  of  the  angels.  It's  too  bad 
you  didn't  because" — she  waited  a  moment 
and  then  said,  quietly,  "The  angels  have  the 
secret  of  perpetual  fire." 

Once  again  there  was  a  long  silence.  Then 
Colonel  Arnold  looked  at  her  with  a  frank 
openness  in  his  eyes. 

"I  think  I  understand  you,"  he  began.  "I 
understand  what  you  have  said.  And  more 
than  that,  I  understand  what  you  haven't 
said.  You  have  tried  to  tell  me  that  how- 
ever successful  a  man's  career  if  he  plays 
the  devil  the  good  things  are  burned  up  in 
his  life.  And  after  the  fire  there  are  the  ashes. 
There  is  the  winter's  cold.  No  flowers  and 
no  warmth.  That's  the  price  a  man  pays — 
even  when  he  smiles  at  gay  dinner  parties, 
the  icy  fingers  are  gripping  at  his  soul." 

There  was  another  silence.  Then  Colonel 
Arnold  arose. 

"You're  quite  right,  old  friend,"  he  said. 
"But  I  can't  roll  back  the  fifty  years.  And 
there  are  some  faces  looking  at  me  out  of 
the  past  which  tell  me  it  is  too  late  to  try 
your  book  of  the  fiery  secret.  There  would 
be  a  leer  on  some  of  them  if  I  tried  the  other 
trail  now." 


110  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

He  had  never  spoken  so  frankly  before. 
Mrs.  Morley  rose  and  stood  beside  him.  There 
was  a  quiet  compulsion  about  her  voice  when 
she  spoke.  "Of  course  it  would  take  a  very 
brave  man,  and  a  very  sincere  man,  and  a 
man  with  enough  youth  in  his  heart  to  con- 
quer the  hard  pride  of  age,  and  enough  re- 
pentance to  be  willing  to  be  hurt" — she  broke 
off  here  and  did  not  finish  her  sentence. 

Abruptly  the  colonel  walked  away  from  the 
summer  house.  She  waited  quietly  while  he 
stood  where  the  light  of  the  night  fell  upon 
him.  When  he  came  back  it  was  with  hesitat- 
ing steps. 

"I  wonder,"  he  began,  "I  wonder — 

Mrs.  Morley  interrupted  him. 

"My  friend,"  she  said,  "personality  never 
grows  old.  It  is  not  in  the  realm  of  the  body, 
but  the  realm  of  the  personal  life  that  these 
battles  are  fought  and  won." 

He  seemed  to  seize  something  in  the  words. 
He  repeated  to  himself,  "Personality  never  grows 
old."  Then  he  heard  Mrs.  Morley  repeating: 

"Age  is  opportunity  no  less  than  youth  itself. 
Though  in  another  dress. 
And  as  the  evening  shadows  fade  away, 
The  sky  is  bright  with  stars  invisible  by  day." 


BURNING  BUT  NOT  CONSUMED    111 

With  his  usual  courtly  grace  Colonel  Arnold 
led  Mrs.  Morley  back  to  the  gay  group  in  the 
spacious  mansion  where  they  were  guests.  With 
characteristic  skill  he  took  his  place  in  the 
sparkling  talk  in  a  house  famous  as  a  meeting 
place  of  men  and  women  who  used  words  like 
bright  swords.  If  you  had  watched  him  closely 
you  would  have  seen  a  new  light  in  his  eye.  It 
was  Mrs.  Morley  who  was  unusually  silent  the 
remainder  of  the  evening.  It  is  a  sobering 
thing  to  watch  the  birth  of  a  soul. 


XI 

AT  THE  POLO  GROUNDS 

THE  car  moved  very  smoothly  over  the 
asphalt  of  Fifth  Avenue.  Mrs.  Morley 
leaned  back  contentedly  against  the  cushions 
and  smiled  whimsically. 

"When  I  get  tired  of  America  I  come  to  New 
York,"  she  said,  with  a  little  gleam  of  mischief 
in  her  eye. 

One  of  the  two  ladies  seated  with  her  in  the 
machine  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"But — Mrs.  Morley,"  she  said  with  a  certain 
gentle,  well-bred  hesitation  which  somehow  ex- 
pressed a  great  deal  of  quiet  insistence,  "don't 
you  know  this  is  America?" 

Mrs.  Maitland,  at  whose  home  Mrs.  Morley 
was  to  visit,  turned  laughingly  to  her  com- 
panion who  had  just  spoken. 

"Now,  don't  try  to  convince  Mrs.  Morley," 
she  said.  "She  is  a  confirmed  Middle  Westerner. 
You  have  to  get  on  the  other  side  of  the  Alle- 
ghenies  to  begin  to  breathe  American  air  to  her 
taste.  And  when  you  prove  she  is  wrong,  she 
112 


AT  THE  POLO  GROUNDS          113 

comes  back  at  you  with  a  clever  paradox  which 
makes  you  feel  uncertain  yourself.  She's  a  dan- 
gerous little  lady." 

Mrs.  Morley  was  sensing  the  vivid  splendid 
life  on  Fifth  Avenue  this  fine  early  autumn 
afternoon.  There  was  a  touch  of  sharp  tonic 
in  the  air,  and  the  very  gleam  of  the  sun  seemed 
made  of  a  sort  of  military  vigor,  as  well  as  heat 
and  light. 

"I  like  it,"  said  the  little  old  lady.  "It  isn't 
America.  It  isn't  Europe.  It's  a  world  all  its 
own.  Fifth  Avenue  is  like  a  steel  engraving. 
It's  made  by  a  very  fine  process.  It's  a  splendid 
bit  of  art.  But  it  isn't  quite  life." 

Once  again  Miss  Needleton,  who  had  first 
answered  Mrs.  Morley,  spoke  up. 

"I  should  be  inclined  to  put  it  just  the  other 
way.  I  should  be  inclined  to  ask  if  anything 
else  is  life." 

The  little  old  lady  smiled  indulgently.  "An 
etching  seems  more  desirable  than  anything  a 
cinematograph  throws  on  the  screen,  doesn't  it? 
But,  after  all,  the  moving  picture  may  be 
nearer  the  reality  of  things." 

Mrs.  Maitland  turned  half  impatiently. 

"Our  Tom  would  like  to  hear  you  say  that. 
Nothing  compels  the  attention  of  his  sixteen 


114  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

years  except  moving  pictures  and  baseball. 
He's  somewhat  of  a  problem  to  us.  And  his 
restlessness  sometimes  makes  him  just  a  little 
difficult.  When  he  isn't  restless,  he's  rather 
rude  and  noisy.  He  doesn't  seem  to  fit  quite 
into  our  scheme  of  things." 

The  little  old  lady  looked  at  her  hostess 
keenly.  Marion  Maitland  had  always  seemed 
to  her  to  have  more  brilliancy  than  human 
sympathy.  Marion  herself  knew  that  she 
touched  only  one  side  of  Mrs.  Morley's  life. 

"We  have  a  friendship  based  on  epigrams," 
she  had  said  once,  years  ago. 

Questions  about  this  beautiful  and  command- 
ing woman  had  been  moving  in  the  little  old 
lady's  mind.  What  sort  of  a  wife  was  she? 
What  sort  of  a  mother  was  she?  This  was  the 
first  visit  Mrs.  Morley  had  paid  to  Marion 
Maitland  since  the  latter's  marriage  eighteen 
years  ago. 

The  machine  stopped  easily,  and  the  three 
women  soon  found  themselves  in  a  home  where 
nothing  struck  the  eye  with  disagreeable  ob- 
viousness, but  everything  seemed  so  absolutely 
to  belong  in  its  place  that  you  did  not  even 
have  to  see  it.  The  whole  atmosphere  was 
curiously  restful. 


AT  THE  POLO  GROUNDS  115 

A  sudden  shout  seemed  to  crash  with  unusual 
loudness  across  the  well-bred  silence  of  the 
house  as  a  boyish  voice  cried  out:  "The  Giants 
have  won,  mother;  and  the  next  game  of  the 
World's  Series  is  to  be  played  in  New  York." 

A  boy,  rather  loosely  hung  together,  but  with 
a  good  pair  of  eyes,  and  a  very  mobile,  expres- 
sive face  came  down  the  stairs. 

Mrs.  Maitland  introduced  her  son  to  Mrs. 
Morley  in  the  midst  of  a  rebuke  to  the  son. 

"Tom,  you  don't  talk;  you  explode.  Really, 
we  can  get  along  without  explosions  in  this 
house.  And  you  know  I  loathe  baseball.  Mrs. 
Morley,  this  is  my  son,  Tom,  who  only  reads 
one  page  of  the  newspapers — the  page  I  never 
read  at  all." 

Tom  held  his  ground,  though  it  was  evident 
that  he  was  embarrassed  and  disappointed. 
Something  in  his  face  seemed  to  say  that  he 
had  been  disappointed  a  great  many  times,  and 
yet  kept  hoping. 

Mrs.  Morley  looked  right  into  his  eyes.  No 
boy  had  ever  resisted  that,  and  in  a  moment 
Tom  had  capitulated.  He  stood  under  a  win- 
dow beside  the  little  old  lady.  Somehow  he 
seemed  to  stand  straighter.  The  adolescent 
angles  seemed  rounding  a  little  into  the  firmer 


116  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

and  finer  lines  of  later  years  as  he  eagerly  an- 
swered the  questions  Mrs.  Morley  asked  about 
the  day's  game. 

Mrs.  Maitland  watched  the  two,  a  touch  of 
amusement  and  a  hint  of  irritation  on  her  face. 
That  the  most  brilliant  woman  she  knew,  whose 
ripe  culture  even  Marion  Maitland  envied, 
should  show  interest  in  baseball,  amused  her. 
That  Mrs.  Morley  instantly  aroused  and  at- 
tracted her  son  in  a  way  she  herself  had  never 
done  vaguely  displeased  her. 

"There,  there,  Tom/*  she  said.  "Mrs.  Morley 
is  tired.  We  must  let  her  go  to  her  room  now. 
Perhaps  she'll  talk  to  you  about  the  Giants 
later,  and,  if  she  wants  to  go,  we'll  send  you 
two  to  the  game  to-morrow." 

There  was  the  tiniest  edge  of  irony  in  this 
sentence. 

"Indeed  I  would  like  to  go,"  Mrs.  Morley 
broke  in  at  once.  "Tom  and  I  will  go  together 
— that  is,  if  tickets  can  be  procured  at  so  late  a 
time." 

If  Tom  had  any  lurking  hesitation  in  his 
complete  surrender  to  Mrs.  Morley,  her  knowl- 
edge of  the  demand  for  tickets  at  a  World's 
Series  cast  it  away. 

"O,  father  will  find  a  way,"  he  cried.  "He  can 


AT  THE  POLO  GROUNDS          117 

get  anything  he  wants";  and  he  was  in  danger 
of  shouting  again  when  a  glimpse  of  his  mother's 
face  caused  the  shout  to  perish  unborn. 

That  night  at  dinner  it  seemed  to  Marion 
Maitland  that  Mrs.  Morley  surpassed  herself. 
Every  resource  of  the  little  old  lady  was  brought 
to  bear  on  making  the  table  talk  as  full  of  dis- 
tinction as  in  some  old-world  center  of  the 
give-and-take  of  flashing  ideas. 

How  wonderfully  Mrs.  Morley  could  listen! 
Edgar  Maitland,  at  whose  right  she  sat,  felt 
her  kindling  influence,  and  talked  as  Marion 
was  proud  to  hear  him  talk. 

Then,  as  if  by  some  subtle  telepathy,  Mrs. 
Morley  detected  the  moment  when  other  guests 
were  possessed  of  some  well-turned  phrase,  or 
was  looking  toward  her  hostess  just  when 
Marion  was  ready  with  some  bit  of  analysis  or 
comment  or  suggestion  glowing  with  the  color 
of  her  own  bright  magnetic  personality. 

All  the  people  at  the  table  seemed  to  be  at 
their  best.  They  talked  of  books  without  seem- 
ing bookish.  They  talked  of  art  without  the 
self-consciousness  which  sometimes  turns  what 
ought  to  be  a  spontaneous  conversation  into  a 
stilted  discussion. 

It  was  as  if  a  touch  of  the  old  Greek  spirit 


118  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

had  made  beauty  a  veritable  part  of  the  living 
experience  of  these  New  Yorkers.  Marion  Mait- 
land  felt  that  she  had  never  had  a  more  success- 
ful dinner,  and  in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  knew 
that  she  owed  it  to  Mrs.  Morley. 

The  next  afternoon  a  certain  box  located  at 
the  best  vantage  point  in  the  Polo  Grounds 
contained  a  sixteen-year-old  boy  whose  eyes 
were  fairly  dancing  with  excitement,  and  a  little 
old  lady  whose  age  we  have  no  right  to  surmise. 
She  seemed  as  young  as  the  boy  beside  her,  as 
she  let  the  spirit  of  the  thousands  of  people  all 
around  play  right  through  her  own. 

No  one  ever  knew  with  what  Herculean  effort 
Edgar  Maitland  justified  his  son's  declaration 
that  he  could  get  anything  he  wanted.  Even  a 
name  well  known  on  Wall  Street  did  not  seem 
as  magical  as  usual  when  its  magic  must  get 
two  seats  in  a  box  for  a  World's  Series  game, 
on  the  morning  when  that  game  was  to  be 
played.  But  somehow  the  impossible  must 
have  been  accomplished,  for  there  sat  Tom 
and  Mrs.  Morley. 

The  shouting  multitude  was  like  a  tonic  to 
the  little  old  lady.  She  kept  Tom  talking,  tell- 
ing of  the  season's  record,  of  the  strong  points 
of  the  Giants  and  the  weakness  of  their  op- 


AT  THE  POLO  GROUNDS  119 

ponents.  And  all  the  while  she  was  getting 
deeper  and  deeper  into  the  real  life  of  the  boy. 

The  game  began,  and  all  conversation  ceased. 
How  quiet  all  those  thousands  of  people  could 
be!  Then,  when  an  effective  play  was  made, 
how  the  applause  roared  forth,  like  the  dis- 
charge of  artillery!  Tom  was  alive  to  the 
finger  tips.  Nothing  escaped  him.  He  seemed 
to  wind  up  with  the  pitchers  and  to  bat  with 
the  batters.  He  took  his  own  journey  to  first 
or  second,  or  made  the  home  plate  amid  the 
shouts  of  the  spectators.  He  literally  played 
the  whole  game.  He  was  the  two  teams,  the 
eighteen  players  made  into  one,  as  far  as  vital 
instant  sympathy  with  the  playing  was  con- 
cerned. 

At  the  close  of  the  ninth  inning  the  score  was 
two  to  two.  The  first  half  of  the  tenth  left  the 
situation  unchanged. 

Then  came  the  moment  to  which  fans  have 
referred  for  many  a  year.  The  Giants  were  at 
the  bat.  A  man  whose  reputation  as  a  batter 
the  whole  baseball  world  knew  waited  for  the 
ball  to  come  over  the  plate.  When  it  came  he 
met  it  with  such  a  blow  as  brought  all  the  spec- 
tators in  the  grand  stand  and  the  bleachers  to 
their  feet.  First  was  made  safely,  of  course,  then 


120  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

second,  then  third — then  home;  and  now  all  the 
stops  were  pulled  out,  as  New  York  shouted  a 
wild,  riotous  psean  of  victory. 

But  something  strange  had  happened.  The 
umpire  was  giving  his  decision.  There  was  a 
moment  of  tense  and  terrible  silence.  Then  a 
whisper  went  through  the  crowd:  the  batter 
had  not  touched  second  base!  In  the  excite- 
ment of  his  mad  journey  from  base  to  base  he 
had  neglected  to  touch  one  little  bag.  So  it 
was  not  a  home  run.  The  batter  was  out. 

A  deep,  curious  sigh  from  thousands  of  throats 
rose  above  the  Polo  Grounds.  Then  the  crowd 
settled  down  quietly  to  watch  the  rest  of  the 
game. 

The  Giants  seemed  to  have  lost  heart.  The 
minutes  passed,  and  when  two  men  were  struck 
out  the  tenth  inning  closed.  Full  of  fiery  energy 
the  Giants'  foes  came  to  the  bat,  and  when  the 
game  was  over  it  was  the  visitors,  and  not  the 
New  Yorkers,  who  carried  away  victory  and  the 
pennant. 

Mrs.  Morley  and  Tom  sat  quietly  in  the  box, 
as  the  people  moved  away.  He  had  been  care- 
fully instructed  not  to  take  her  out  until  the 
crowd  had  pretty  well  dispersed. 

The  boy  was  gloomy  enough  now.    His  idols 


AT  THE  POLO  GROUNDS  121 

had  fallen,  right  before  his  eyes.  He  looked  at 
Mrs.  Morley  to  see  if  she  understood.  He  was 
quite  satisfied  with  the  eyes  which  met  his  own. 

"Gee!"  he  said.  "Think  of  winning  a  game 
and  a  series,  and  then  losing  like  that." 

His  jaws  set  firmly  as  he  said,  "It's  per- 
fectly— '  (he  forgot  Mrs.  Morley  for  the  mo- 
ment) "it's  perfectly  rotten!" 

Mrs.  Morley  was  watching  him  closely. 

"It's  not  enough  to  be  a  great  batter,  is  it?" 
she  said.  "One  has  to  remember  to  touch  sec- 
ond base." 

Something  made  Tom  turn  quickly.  He  felt  at 
once  that  she  meant  more  than  she  was  saying. 

"That's  true,  all  right,"  he  said,  "but  what 
else  do  you  mean?" 

The  little  old  lady's  pleasure  in  his  question 
was  evident. 

"Well,  life's  like  that,  isn't  it?"  she  said. 
"It's  a  big  thing  to  be  a  great  batter,  but  such 
a  lot  of  fellows  forget  to  touch  second  base." 

Tom  was  all  soberness  at  once. 

"You  know,  I've  never  thought  of  it  that 
way,"  he  said.  "You  mean  life  itself  is  a 
big  game.  Say,  I'd  like  to  be  a  pitcher,  and 
pitch  as  Matty  did  to-day." 

"I   think   you   will   some   day,"   said   Mrs. 


122  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

Morley.  "You'll  come  to  the  bat  too.  You'll 
have  a  fine  batting  arm.  And  after  you  hit 
the  ball  you  must  remember  every  bag." 

Tom  was  very  quiet.  Then  he  turned  to 
Mrs.  Morley  impulsively.  "I  wonder  how 
a  fellow  could  begin  now,"  he  said,  burst- 
ing his  sentence  in  his  eagerness,  "how  he 
could  begin  now  to  be  ready  not  to  miss  sec- 
ond base." 

The  little  old  lady's  eyes  were  full  of  a 
sparkling  challenge. 

"Do  you  know,  Tom,"  she  said,  "I  have 
a  notion  to  tell  you!  The  winter  work  of 
the  teams  in  the  South  isn't  a  grand  stand 
performance,  you  know.  It's  just  getting 
ready  for  the  games  later." 

Tom  was  looking  eagerly  into  her  face. 

"O,  that's  it?"  he  said.  "I'm  not  useless 
now,  after  all,  while  I'm  only  a  boy.  I'm 
just  in  the  South  getting  ready  for  the  season. 
That  makes  a  lot  of  difference.  Why,  it  makes 
everything  better." 

There  was  a  little  choke  in  Mrs.  Morley's 
throat  as  she  watched  Tom's  hunger  to  get 
hold  of  something  which  would  give  him  a 
sense  that  his  boyish  life  had  value. 

But  he  quickly  pursued  his  questions. 


AT  THE  POLO  GROUNDS  123 

"What  are  some  of  the  things  a  fellow 
ought  to  do  in  the  South?" 

The  challenging,  comradely,  demanding 
sparkle  was  in  Mrs.  Morley's  eye  again. 

"Well,  if  you  want  the  kind  of  directions  a 
coach  in  life  would  give — I  suppose  a  boy  who 
has  enough  self-control  not  to  shout  in  the 
house,  and  remembers  the  things  his  mother 
wants  him  to  do,  and  learns  to  be  interested 
in  the  things  she  likes — I  should  think  that 
kind  of  fellow  would  never  miss  second  base." 

Tom  looked  away  for  several  minutes.  Then 
he  looked  fearlessly  and  honestly  into  Mrs. 
Morley's  eyes.  Indeed,  there  was  a  twinkle 
in  his  own. 

"Gee,  but  you  did  put  that  over,"  he  chuck- 
led. Then  his  face  became  very  serious. 
"All  right,  Mrs.  Morley,"  he  said,  "I'll  do  it." 

•  •••••••• 

This  was  really  all  that  happened,  except 
that  from  Mrs.  Morley's  visit  Marion  Mait- 
land  seemed  to  take  a  new  interest  in  her 
son,  challenged  perhaps  by  his  evident  devo- 
tion to  the  little  old  lady.  And  Tom  responded 
in  a  way  which  completely  surprised  his  mother. 
There  even  came  a  day  when  they  went  to 
the  Polo  Grounds  together. 


XII 
THE  OTHER  COUNTRY 

THERE  was  autumn  beauty  everywhere. 
"The  leaves  on  the  trees  make  you 
think  of  a  glorious  sunset,"  Mrs.  Morley  had 
declared  that  morning  as  she  drew  back  the 
curtains  of  the  window  and  looked  out  on 
the  masses  of  color  in  which  the  trees  had 
clothed  themselves.  With  wonderful  angry 
beauty  they  were  meeting  the  frosts  and  the 
chill.  They  would  be  defeated  with  colors 
flying. 

Mrs.  Morley  was  seated  on  the  pleasant 
piazza  in  front  of  the  cottage  to  which  she 
had  so  often  slipped  away  from  the  city  to 
rest  during  the  stress  and  strain  of  the  life 
of  many  years. 

Thomas  Barton  was  sitting  beside  her; 
the  Rev.  Thomas  Barton,  S.T.B.,  to  give 
him  the  benefit  of  his  ecclesiastical  title  and 
his  theological  degree.  He  was  young — "shame- 
fully young,"  one  of  his  friends  in  the  East 
had  said — and  his  closely  knit,  well-built 

124 


THE  OTHER  COUNTRY  125 

figure  and  clean-cut  face  were  good  to  look 
upon. 

Only  five  months  before  this  autumn  after- 
noon he  had  graduated  from  theological  school 
— a  famous  institution  of  scholars  and  leaders 
— and  he  was  having  his  first  experience  as  a 
shepherd  of  souls. 

"You  don't  know  what  it  means  to  me 
to  come  here  while  you  are  out  from  the 
city,"  he  was  saying.  "You  care  about  the 
things  I  care  about.  You  understand." 

He  hesitated  a  moment;  then  he  said,  "I 
can't  get  inside  the  people  here — if  there  is 
any  inside,"  he  added,  bitterly.  "They  don't 
know  what  I'm  talking  about  when  I  preach. 
And  I  don't  know  what  to  talk  to  them  about 
when  I  call." 

He  gave  an  impetuous  shrug  of  his  sturdy 
shoulders  and  a  wry  smile  came  over  his  face 
as  he  went  on:  "You  remember  that  illustra- 
tion I  used  last  Sunday  about  the  Apollo 
Belvedere.  Well,  one  of  the  men  fresh  from 
the  farm  asked  me  afterward  if  that  town 
wasn't  in  the  State  of  Maine.  Now  what  can 
you  do  with  people  like  that?" 

Mrs.  Morley  ignored  his  question,  and 
asked  another. 


126  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

"Do  you  really  know  Mortimer  Biglow?" 

Mortimer  Biglow  was  the  saint  and  mys- 
tic of  the  countryside. 

"O,  yes,  I  know  him,"  Thomas  Barton 
replied.  "He's  good,  surely.  But —  there 
was  a  wealth  of  meaning  in  his  hesitation. 

A  little  light  of  mischief  came  into  the 
little  old  lady's  eye. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  English  lady," 
she  asked,  "who  was  talking  of  a  pious  man 
from  her  country  home? 

*  'O,   we'll  meet  him  in  heaven,'  she  said, 
'but  we  can't  possibly  know  him  in  London!'  ' 

"Now  you're  laughing  at  me,"  cried  Thomas 
Barton,  his  face  flushing  a  little.  "But,  after 
all,  there's  a  pretty  deep  gulf  fixed,  and  the 
people  don't  cross  it,  and  I  can't  find  the 
way  over  to  them." 

The  two  sat  silent  for  a  little  while.  Then  Mrs. 
Morley  looked  quite  into  the  young  man's  eyes. 

"I  suppose  any  culture  is  very  provincial," 
she  said,  "which  does  not  add  to  a  man's 
human  resourcefulness." 

Thomas  Barton  made  a  gesture  of  pro- 
test, and  was  about  to  speak.  But  just  then 
there  was  a  click  of  the  gate,  and  another 
young  man  entered. 


THE  OTHER  COUNTRY  127 

"Good  afternoon,  Phil,"  said  the  young 
minister,  indifferently.  He  was  evidently  less 
than  pleased  to  have  his  conversation  with 
Mrs.  Morley  interrupted.  Philip  Downs  'was 
about  to  turn  away  with  a  quick  understand- 
ing of  the  situation.  But  Mrs.  Morley  had 
arisen,  and  stood  before  him  with  outstretched 
hand. 

"Six  whole  days  I  have  been  in  Maple- 
ton,"  she  said,  "and  this  is  the  first  time  you 
have  walked  through  my  gate." 

A  quick  glow  came  to  the  face  of  Philip 
Downs. 

"You  are  an  opportunity  and  a  tempta- 
tion," he  said  in  a  tone  of  friendly  banter 
which  caused  the  young  minister  to  look 
up  in  surprise.  "But  the  farm  is  a  very  jealous 
mistress,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Morley  was  sitting  now  between  the 
two  young  men,  each  in  one  of  the  hospitable, 
friendly  chairs  of  her  piazza.  For  the  mo- 
ment she  let  the  minister  slip  into  the  back- 
ground, while  she  plied  Philip  Downs  with 
questions  about  his  reading  and  his  work. 

Thomas  Barton  listened  in  amazement. 
This  young  farmer,  who  had  been  repelled 
by  some  unconscious  touch  of  condescension 


128          THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

in  the  minister,  and  had  made  himself  unap- 
proachable enough,  was  now  showing  himself 
to  be  a  man  of  mental  power,  of  individual 
opinion  and  a  real  gift  of  expression.  Thomas 
Barton  did  not  know  that  for  years  Mrs. 
Morley  had  been  the  guide,  philosopher,  and 
friend  of  Philip  Downs,  and  that  his  mental 
life  had  expanded  under  her  influence  as  a 
flower  comes  to  fine  bloom. 

It  was  Philip  who  became  conscious  that 
the  minister  was  being  left  out  of  the  con- 
versation— Mrs.  Morley  knew  that  she  could 
trust  him  with  that  opportunity.  And  it 
was  Philip  who  deftly  included  Thomas  Barton 
in  the  talk,  which  soon  had  all  the  glow  and 
interest  of  actually  congenial  minds  playing 
about  themes  of  mutual  concern. 

The  two  young  men  left  the  cottage  to- 
gether. When  they  were  about  to  separate, 
Thomas  Barton  put  out  his  hand  impulsively; 
"I've  never  known  you,  Phil,"  he  said.  "I'm 
glad  to  have  met  you  to-night — the  real  you." 
Then,  with  a  little  difficulty,  he  got  out  the 
rest  of  what  he  wanted  to  say.  "I  wish  we 
might  be  friends." 

"Sure  thing,"  said  Phil,  heartily  as  he 
gripped  the  offered  hand,  "but  let  me  tell 


THE  OTHER  COUNTRY  129 

you,  there  are  a  lot  of  people  around  here 
better  worth  knowing  than  I."  A  genuine 
friendly  concern  had  crept  into  his  voice. 
"Try  being  a  Columbus,  Mr.  Barton,  and 
discover  this  part  of  America.  It's  a  great 
country."  Then  he  said  "Good-night." 

Mrs.  Morley  continued  to  sit  quietly  on 
the  piazza  of  her  cottage.  She  smiled  in 
a  gentle,  understanding  way  as  she  thought 
of  the  two  young  men  each  having  so  much 
to  give  to  the  other.  She  was  glad  that  she 
had  been  able  to  bring  them  together. 

Then  she  turned  her  mind  to  other  things. 

Her  family  physician's  face,  with  its  grave, 
frank  friendliness,  was  before  her  again.  He 
had  made  a  special  call  just  before  she  had 
left  the  city.  She  had  wondered  a  little 
at  the  quality  of  gentle  admiration  in  all 
that  he  said.  They  were  always  great  friends, 
but  Dr.  Newcombe  was  never  a  flatterer. 
When  he  rose  to  go  he  stood  by  her  chair  for 
a  moment. 

"I  do  not  need  to  be  evasive  with  you," 
he  said;  "you  always  look  life  straight  in 
the  eye." 

Mrs.  Morley  had  taken  a  moment  to  look 
out  of  the  window.  Then  it  was  a  clear, 


130  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

steady  gaze  which  met  the  physician's  earnest 
look. 

"Perhaps  you  have  nothing  to  tell  me," 
she  said,  quietly.  "There  are  some  things 
nature  tells  us — to  keep  physicians  hum- 
ble," she  added  with  characteristic  whim- 
sical humor. 

Dr.  Newcombe  smiled  a  little.  Then  he 
waited  until  Mrs.  Morley  asked,  simply,  "Can 
you  tell  me  how  long  it  will  be?" 

The  physician  spoke  slowly.  "I  cannot 
be  sure,  of  course.  But  I  think  it  will  come 
quickly,  as  it  has  done  often  with  your  mother's 
people.  You  have  used  all  your  vitality  with 
such  abandon  that — to  be  frank,  you  are 
living  now  on  your  will  rather  than  on  your 
strength.  When  the  time  comes  I  do  not 
think  there  will  be  much  power  of  resistance — 

Mrs.  Morley  interrupted.  "I  see  what  you 
mean,"  she  said.  "It  will  be  like  the  'one-hoss 
shay' — everything  giving  out  at  once — and  that 
is  what  I  have  always  wanted." 

Neither  spoke  for  a  while.  Then  Dr.  New- 
combe  said:  "Don't  be  alone  for  any  long 
period.  I  was  afraid  you  might  do  that  in 
the  country.  Keep  some  one  within  calling 
distance  all  the  while." 


THE  OTHER  COUNTRY  131 

The  words  seemed  to  bring  a  new,  sud- 
den sense  of  realization  to  Mrs.  Morley.  The 
physician  saw  her  hand  close  quickly.  Then 
her  eyes  were  full  of  light  as  she  turned  them 
upon  him. 

"Thank  you,  my  good  old  friend,"  she 
said.  Then  she  laid  her  hand  gently  upon 
his  arm.  "It  has  been  good  to  be  alive," 
she  said,  "so  good — so  good." 

The  physician  marveled  as  he  thought  of 
many  things  locked  among  the  professional 
secrets  in  his  mind  and  heart.  Then  he  re- 
membered other  things,  and  did  not  marvel. 

But  Mrs.  Morley  was  still  speaking.  "I 
think  the  autumn  has  been  best  of  all.  Do 
you  know,  I  have  rather  enjoyed  being  the 
'last  leaf  upon  the  tree' !" 

The  two  were  standing  now,  and  the  phy- 
sician murmured  some  scarcely  articulate  words 
of  farewell.  Mrs.  Morley  looked  up  quickly. 
"Do  not  fear  for  me,"  she  said.  "I  shall  be 
waiting." 

All  this  passed  through  her  mind — sitting 
now  on  the  piazza  of  her  summer  cottage. 
Within  she  heard  the  sound  of  softly  moving 
feet,  as  a  well-trained  servant  moved  about 
some  household  task.  She  looked  out  at  the 


132  THE  LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

Western  hills  with  the  rich  colors  of  the  leaves, 
and  on  at  the  sky  radiant  with  the  golden 
glow  of  the  day's  farewell. 

Softly  she  repeated  to  herself  the  words 
from  Hiawatha: 

"And  the  evening  sun  descending 
Set  the  clouds  on  fire  with  redness, 
Burned  the  broad  sky,  like  a  prairie. 
Left  upon  the  level  water 
One  long  track  and  trail  of  splendor. 
Down  whose  stream,  as  down  a  river. 
Westward,  westward  Hiawatha 
Sailed  into  the  fiery  sunset. 
Sailed  into  the  purple  vapors, 
Sailed  into  the  dusk  of  evening. 

"Thus  departed  Hiawatha, 
Hiawatha  the  Beloved, 
In  the  glory  of  the  sunset, 
In  the  purple  mists  of  evening. 
To  the  regions  of  the  home-wind, 
Of  the  Northwest  wind,  Keewaydin, 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
To  the  land  of  the  Hereafter!" 

The  little  old  lady  sat  very  still. 

"The  land  of  the  Hereafter,"  she  repeated 
in  a  voice  very  low  and  quiet. 

Suddenly  out  of  the  past  there  came  with 
a  sharp  pang  the  sorrow  within  the  sorrow. 


THE  OTHER  COUNTRY  133 

But  with  it  at  once  there  was  a  quick,  won- 
derful knowledge  that  it  was  a  part  of  some- 
thing larger,  and  that  larger  thing  was  all 
shining  with  noble  joy.  She  seemed  focusing 
her  eyes  to  see  some  wonderful,  unaccustomed 
thing. 

At  length  she  understood  that  the  picture 
which  was  capturing  her  imagination — some- 
thing more  than  a  picture,  she  knew — was 
one  great,  strong  Form  bending  under  a  heavy 
burden.  It  was  a  form  she  instinctively 
recognized. 

"He  has  always  carried  my  burdens,"  she 
breathed  rather  than  spoke.  Then  the  heavy 
burden  strangely  vanished.  But  the  radiant 
strong  Form  remained,  standing  in  the  glory 
of  the  sunset  and  beckoning. 

In  that  transfigured  moment  mysteries  all 
seemed  suddenly  to  be  made  clear.  Vast 
vistas  opened.  The  sunset  became  a  sun- 
rise. She  was  not  at  all  bewildered  or  sur- 
prised. The  one  Face  with  its  love  and  wel- 
come filled  all  her  thought.  .  .  . 

So  they  found  her  in  the  shadows  after 
the  sunset — very  still  and  very  small — with 
the  light  of  the  eternal  morning  upon  her  face. 


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